


Atlas: Two

by wildlyricalair



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: But also just straight up romance, Chivalry, Courtly Love, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Plenty of Yearning, Yearning, show-verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2019-06-21 12:48:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 25,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15558054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildlyricalair/pseuds/wildlyricalair
Summary: And what a privilege it is to loveA great honor to hold you up---Bronn’s mocking words floated back into his mind as the minutes ticked by: "I’ll not tell anyone you’re in love with your Lady."Podrick lurched to his feet, paced a quick lap around the room, then poked at the fire and added another log to it. Bronn shouldn’t say things like that. And Pod shouldn’t think them, either. He’d be a damned fool if he allowed himself to fall in love with the Lady of Winterfell.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know. Starting another story when I have a million unfinished. But I have so much of this one written and y'all, I'm kinda in love with it. I'm in love with these characters and I'm in love with what I am considering my best possible ending for the show. Pod and Sansa are my OTP that I know is never gonna happen, so I'm making them happen anyways before the show ends and I'm left crying for whatever reason. Anyways, I hope you all like it, please leave feedback and also check out the gorgeous Sleeping at Last song from which this fic gets its title. Love and hugs to you all - thanks for reading, you're the best!

They made up a strange party, the lady of Winterfell, her sworn sword, her sworn sword’s squire, and the Greyjoy boy, almost unrecognizable as a man beneath the layers of grime and filth that had accumulated on him. Brienne rode ahead, ever watchful, ever ready, with Lady Sansa and Theon close behind and Podrick making up the rear.

They had been riding for hours when Brienne’s ears pricked at the sound of one of the horses behind her picking up its speed and she glanced over to see Podrick pulling up to her side. “Lady Sansa should rest,” he murmured, his voice quiet so as to be intelligible only to Brienne. “I can see her shivering and she’s listing a bit in the saddle. She needs to dry her clothes and eat something.”

Brienne cast a surreptitious glance over her shoulder; although Brienne would hardly say Sansa was ‘listing,’ the boy might be right in that her head was held not quite so high and her back not quite so straight as a proper lady’s ought to be. Brienne didn’t know the girl at all, but she had known her mother, and if Sansa was anything like Catelyn, only some extreme ailment or exhaustion would keep her from playing the part of the Lady of Winterfell to perfection. A shudder ran up the girl’s spine, and Brienne turned back to Podrick. “You may be right. We’ll stop as soon as we find a safe place to set up camp.”

A copse of trees half a league down the road and just barely within eyesight of the road itself had provided a passable shelter, and Brienne had led the four of them to it, eyes darting from place to place quickly and a wary hand on her sword. Pod had built a small fire and taken Sansa’s frozen boots and cloak, shrugging out of his own threadbare cape and placing it over her shoulders before setting her things near the fire to thaw and warm. She’d pulled the cloak tight around her slim shoulders and rubbed at her feet and hands and held them near the fire and spoken quietly with Theon Greyjoy as Pod and Brienne withdrew a little ways to practice their swordsmanship.

They slept all huddled around the fire, with Brienne and Pod taking it in turns to watch for pursuers and keep the small flame going while the other three shivered and tried to catch what little rest they could on the frozen ground.

When morning came, Podrick woke and got up to spar with Brienne. She beat him every time, but despite Pod’s fingers being numb from the cold, he managed to get in a couple of decent hits before she knocked him down again and again and again. They traveled longer that day, and at the end of it they made camp again, near the road.

The next morning, Theon Greyjoy took his leave of them, taking only a small amount of the food that Brienne offered him and the clothes on his back, such as they were. Sansa watched him go, face carefully blank, but Pod approached her carefully and murmured, “He’ll be alright, My Lady. And you’ll be safe with us.”

“I hope so,” she’d nodded. “I hope he gets home.”

Pod gave her a small smile and set to gathering up their things so they could set off again. 

* * *

 

Early in the afternoon, they’d been startled off the road by a sudden noise, spurring their horses into a gallop and riding as hard as they could for as long as the horses could manage before finding a small rock formation just off the road and crouching down behind it. They spent a breathless half-hour there,  watching for any sign of movement, Brienne and Pod with swords drawn and Sansa sandwiched between them.

When Brienne had decided it was safe to venture on, they did, riding until just before dark and making camp, choosing a more concealed spot and not daring to risk a fire – just to be safe, Brienne had decided.

As they finished eating, Sansa had asked, in a low tone, if Podrick would teach her how to fight, to defend herself. If Ramsay’s men caught up with them –

They wouldn’t, he’d hastened to assure her –

But _if_ they did, she’d pressed. She wanted to be able to do something, to protect herself. She hesitated. Then, softer, more determined. “I won’t go back. If he catches us. I’m not going back to him alive.”

Pod had felt a shiver trail down his spine at her words, but he nodded. “I understand, My Lady.” He paused, then added, “But I’ll not show you how to kill yourself.”

Sansa had studied him carefully, then replied, “I’m not asking you to. Only how to stop them catching me in the first place.”

“Of course,” he agreed. After a moment, he began to suggest with a slight tinge of uncertainty, “Lady Brienne might – “

“I can’t wield a sword like Brienne,” Sansa interrupted. “But perhaps a dagger, or even my hands. You could show me that, could you not?”

“Yes. I could. Show you that, I mean” Pod nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you, Podrick,” Sansa inclined her head with a small smile.

“Of course, My Lady.” Pod gave a jerk of his chin before turning back to the bedrolls he had retrieved from the horses’ saddlebags and beginning to unroll them.

Sansa watched him work, drawing her cloak closer around her shoulders and marveling to herself that this serious, steady man was somehow the same boy who had once followed Tyrion around, turning beet red and stammering dreadfully if she’d spoken so much as a word to him. He was still kind, though. He’d always been like that. It occurred to Sansa in that moment that Pod’s ability to retain his gentleness was almost as much of a wonder as the myriad ways in which he had grown and changed since she had seen him last.

* * *

Now that the Greyjoy boy was gone, Pod had moved to take his place at Lady Sansa’s side. But where Sansa and Theon had ridden in silence, Brienne could hear occasional low murmurs between the two, unintelligible snippets of whispered conversation between them.

When they stopped to rest, Pod would build a fire, then draw Sansa off a few paces to show her how to handle a dagger or strike with her hands. Brienne wondered where Pod had learned much of what he was showing Sansa – she certainly hadn’t taught him such underhanded moves, a dagger to the kidney or a fist to the throat. She had nearly chided him, until she had seen Sansa duck out of his grasp and deliver a surprisingly vicious elbow to his groin.

Surprising to all of them, evidently. Sansa had gasped and dropped to her knees at Pod’s side as he doubled over in pain, murmuring apologies and insisting she hadn’t meant to hit him so hard and grabbing hold of his hand and sitting next to him as he regained his breath. He assured her over and over that he was fine, that she had done exactly the right thing, and then, for reasons unfathomable to Brienne, apologized to Sansa a number of times.

Brienne felt a smile tugging at one corner of her mouth and ducked her head to hide it. Maybe the boy was teaching Sansa exactly the kind of fighting she needed to know.

She still trained Pod, an hour in the morning and an hour at night. Sansa watched intently during these sessions as well, and sometimes Brienne saw her ask Pod about certain moves later, allow him to demonstrate them for her, show her how to make the movements herself. Pod’s own skills began to improve noticeably, and Brienne couldn’t help but wonder whether her training was simply finally beginning to take root in him, or if helping Sansa was helping him just as much. In either case, Brienne could see marks of competency in his movements, and felt something almost akin to pride as she watched her young protégé facing off with Lady Stark in the snow.


	2. Chapter 2

She’d changed from the girl he’d known in King’s Landing.

Podrick had never seen Sansa look vulnerable; even after her brother Robb’s death, when she had stopped eating and given up speaking almost entirely her grief had borne an edge, any pain she felt encased in armor and kept as close to her own chest as possible. But here, only hours ago in the courtyard of Castle Black, wrapped in her brother’s arms and nestled into his neck, she had looked young, almost a girl again, safe and loved and entirely at peace for one brief moment.

She’d changed again, from the lady she’d been when she’d refused their service at the inn on the Kingsroad.

She knew how to be a perfect lady; she was nearly the refined, gracious lady she had been trained to be, smiling at the Night’s Watchman as he apologized for the food and replying, “That’s alright, there are more important things.”

She was something more, though, too. After everything. She wasn’t like any other lady Pod had seen, not anymore.

He had also never seen Brienne look so ill-at-ease as she did under the red-haired Wildling’s scrutiny. The man’s gaze devoured Brienne even as his mouth devoured his food, and Brienne shifted uncomfortably and looked anywhere else. Pod wondered briefly how another woman might respond to such attention, if there was a woman who might return such a look with one of her own. Surely not, he thought. Even the whores in King’s Landing had learned to play coy under such glances. He felt his cheeks reddening at the thought of such women – women he had known, whose names he had learned, Kayla, Marei, Genna. No, a true lady, one like Lady Sansa or Margaery Tyrell would never allow a man to eye her up so boldly. As was only right, Pod thought. A lady like Lady Sansa should never be looked at with so little respect. Nor should Brienne, though Pod imagined that Brienne would make this wildling fellow regret his impertinence eventually.

Brienne would beat him with her sword. Sansa, he imagined, could punish a man in other ways.

There were moments, brief moments, when the resolve was so clear in Sansa’s eyes that a shiver actually ran down Pod’s spine at the sight of her. He’d seen it before, in the woods, when she swore she wouldn’t return to Ramsay alive, and he saw it again now as she took the letter from Jon’s hand and read the Bastard of Bolton’s words aloud to the room.

“You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister. You will watch as my dogs devour your wild little brother. Then I will spoon your eyes from their sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

Her voice was cold and dispassionate as she read; it was calm as she made her case, urged her brother to action. She reached out, grabbed Jon’s hand. “A monster has taken our home and our brother. We have to go back to Winterfell and save them both.”

Silence fell, and after an eternity, Jon looked up at her, nodded once. Watching Sansa, seeing the look in her eyes, the set of her jaw, Pod thought to himself that if he were in Jon’s place, he wouldn’t be able to give any other answer, either.

No, she wasn’t quite a lady anymore. Not just a lady, anyways. Before Pod had first seen her, she’d been destined to be a queen, to be Joffrey’s queen. Here, in the North, having survived Joffrey, Cersei, Ramsay, gods knew what else, calling men to fight for her and inspiring their loyalty and love, Pod couldn’t help but think that Sansa would have been the kind of queen that he would be proud to serve.

Perhaps that was why she couldn’t just be a lady now. Somewhere along the way she’d become the queen she’d always meant to be.

* * *

There were times when Brienne couldn’t remember why she had been so resentful of Pod’s presence, initially. Not that she ever truly forgot. It was just that in those moments, like when she had informed him, brusquely, that they were to leave for Riverrun, and he simply nodded and began getting things ready for the journey, that she was grateful, almost glad, that Jaime had foisted the boy on her. There was something almost reassuring about the way he simply trusted and obeyed her, and Lady Sansa, by extension. He betrayed so little in his expressions; when she had first met him she’d thought it was stupidity, but enough time with him had shown her that he understood very well what was going on, he was simply ready to do his best with whatever fate and those above him threw his way. Brienne did the same, but she’d never quite mastered the art of calm the way Podrick had.

As they prepared to leave, Brienne noticed Sansa and Podrick speaking quietly together. The girl stood straight and tall, taller than Pod, almost, and spoke softly, though Brienne was able to catch a gently murmured word here and there on the wind. “Thank you… kind… be safe… Winter… coming… warm.” She pressed something small into his hands and bobbed her head, her long, red braid dropping over her shoulder as she stepped back from him.

The boy stared at the thing in his hands for a moment, evidently struck dumb, then glanced back up at her and stammered out a thank you, lurching forward into a sort of half-bow and flushing beet red as his eyes met hers on the way back up. She smiled, ever the gracious lady, and it occurred to Brienne that she might even have seen a little glint of fondness for the young squire in Sansa’s eyes.

It didn’t seem so far-fetched; not really. Podrick might be clumsy, and something of a stumbletongue, but Jaime had told her that Tyrion had been greatly concerned for his young squire’s well-being, and Brienne had even developed a certain tolerance for his presence that she’d cultivated for few others. Sansa may have developed the same affection for him that all those he served seemed to.

Brienne had sometimes wondered, particularly when they had first begun traveling together, how the boy had managed to stay alive so long with so little perceptible skill. But now she thought that perhaps the reason he’d survived till now was that the boy’s kind and gentle soul managed to kindle some sort of affection for him in nearly everyone he encountered. Strength kept you alive, but Podrick had spent enough time with Jaime’s brother and was astute enough himself to have learned to use his weaknesses as armor.

“What did she give you?” Brienne wanted to know, once they’d exited the keep and made their way to the main road.

“Gloves, my lady. She said it’ll be winter soon and I’ll need a pair to keep warm while we’re on the road.” His cheeks were tinged with pink when Brienne looked over at him, although whether it was from the cold or talking of Lady Sansa, she couldn’t tell.  The cold was doing wonders for Podrick in that way; it disguised his embarrassment quite handily and Brienne had thought to herself more than once that he might be better suited to this place than one might initially think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Any feedback you have to give is always appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

Brienne had been furious that they’d missed the great battle, that Sansa had been left alone to depend on Lord Baelish for safety in its midst. “He’s a small man and I reckon I could get some distance with him, but I wouldn’t trust him as far as _he_ could throw _me_ ,” she’d murmured to Pod, watching Littlefinger mistrustfully as the Northern lords filed out of the Great Hall. Sansa remained sat at the head table beside Jon, who was conversing quietly with Davos Seaworthy on his other side.

“That’s not far at all, my lady,” Pod had nodded his agreement.

“No, no it isn’t,” Brienne had replied, stepping away from him and moving quickly to Sansa’s side as the man in question got to his feet and seemed to hesitate, eyes locked on the lady of Winterfell before a half-smirk crossed his face and he turned to exit the hall with the lords.

Sansa watched him go, eyes grave, and as he disappeared from sight, her eyes flickered to Pod, who inclined his head and offered her a shy smile. Her eyes softened, just slightly, and she nodded back, then turned to look up at Brienne and murmur quietly to her.

Brienne listened, frowning, then replied. Sansa shook her head and cast a glance back at Pod. She said something else, to which Brienne nodded after a moment’s hesitation and looked up, motioning for Pod to join them. Brienne’s eyebrows were creased into a deep vee, the expression on her face the one she often carried when she didn’t fully understand something.

Pod moved across the hall and gave a slight bow when he reached them. “Lady Sansa.”

She smiled, gracious as ever. “Welcome back, Podrick. You look well.”

“Thank you, My Lady.”

“Lady Sansa has a request to make of you, Pod,” Brienne cut the niceties off, her voice sharp.

Pod, a bit befuddled, let his gaze drift to Sansa’s face. “Of course. What can I do for you, My Lady?”

* * *

 

The King in the North had ordered that women and children should begin training to fight, and the Lady of Winterfell was no exception. She took her lessons privately, and early in the morning, however, and she trained only with the squire Podrick Payne. Lord Royce had offered his best knights to train her, as had little Lyanna Mormont, but Sansa had declined both with a gracious tilt of her head and a smile, insisting that Podrick was doing a fine job of training her. Lord Royce had stammered incredulously and Lady Mormont had sniffed and raised a skeptical eyebrow, but neither had argued.

Brienne had, of course, offered to take over for her squire, but Sansa had turned her down as well, turning to Podrick and saying that as long as he didn’t mind rising early to help her, she wished to continue being taught by him. He had flushed beet red and bowed and stammered that he was pleased to serve her as long as she wanted him. “To help you, I mean. With fighting.” 

Sansa had been unable to stop the slow smile that spread across her face at the squire’s open, earnest expression and the flustered sincerity that he carried in his voice at all times. “Thank you, Pod.”

When Brienne had asked, later, why Sansa continued to insist on having Podrick train her, Sansa hesitated. She had known the question was coming, of course, but was unsure how to explain how comforting she found the young man’s presence, how his entirely unthreatening demeanor made her feel more at ease than even her own brother, who was constantly pushing her, underestimating her, overlooking her and forcing her to prove herself over and over again. How his constant, gentle reminders about her form or critiques of her movements never made her feel as though she had failed, only motivated her to try harder to do it right the next time. How she trusted him never to hurt her. How he always reached to help her up when she fell and never yanked or hoisted her or treated her with anything but complete deference and gentility.

How when he would rush her or grab her arm or give her a shove to compel a retaliatory move from her, she never felt that spike of fear in her chest or the ghost of a bruise on her wrist or a throb of pain in her back the way she sometimes did when other men made sudden movements. 

She had lifted one shoulder and told Brienne, “He doesn’t remind me of Ramsay. Or Joff.”

Brienne’s eyes had flickered, her eyebrows furrowed slightly, but she had understood, and given only an acquiescent jerk of her chin in response, then swallowed heavily and fallen silent. She had been with Sansa in Mole’s Town with Petyr Baelish, had heard what Sansa had told him about her time with Ramsay, and Sansa knew she remembered and would not ask her to say any more.

* * *

 

A fresh layer of snow had fallen overnight – not snow, tiny balls of ice. Hail. It had fallen, coated everything, then frozen over. Pod had made his way gingerly to the courtyard in the morning to train with Sansa, wary as he stepped onto the snow and found that it gave very little underneath his feet. Sansa arrived a few minutes later, carrying a bundle in her arms. She was, obviously, unfazed by this new and strange type of wintry groundcover that Pod had never seen before; she floated atop the slippery, hardened ice and left no footprints in her wake.

She smiled when she reached him and apologized for her lateness, then cleared her throat and held out the bundle she’d brought with her. “Winter is here, Pod. You need a proper cloak.”

She handed him the folded fabric and added, “I feel terrible you haven’t had one before now. I’ve had one made for Brienne as well.”

Pod stood still, fingers pressed into the fur sewn over the shoulders of the cloak, and replied, “This is too much. Thank you, My Lady.”

“It’s nothing,” Sansa disagreed. “I’m the Stark in Winterfell, I have to make sure my people are taken care of.”

“I’ll be dressed like a real Northman soon if you keep giving me clothes,” Pod had smiled.

Sansa had allowed a soft laugh. “You’ll wear it well. And you Westerlanders are woefully unprepared for a winter in the North; I’ve got to make sure you don’t freeze.”

Pod smiled, cheeks reddening, and he was unable to tell if the primary cause was the wind whipping around them or the fact that Sansa had given him something almost like a compliment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I appreciate your time and any feedback you have!


	4. Chapter 4

One by one, the Starks had come home. Bran first, serious and enigmatic and dragged by the exhausted daughter of Howland Reed. Then Arya, full of fire and fury and a better fighter than anyone Pod had ever seen before – even Brienne.

Sansa saw the look on Pod’s face as he watched her sister fight and felt a slight twinge in her chest; he never seemed awestruck by her the way he was by Arya. She’d never felt inferior to her sister before, but there seemed little doubt that Arya had become a weapon in and of herself in her absence, while Sansa had barely managed to survive.

Pod had suggested to Sansa, during one of their early morning training sessions, that perhaps her sister might be a more natural choice to teach Sansa to defend herself than he, but Sansa had sighed and shaken her head and said that Arya wouldn’t want to. She’d tilted her head at Pod and asked if he didn’t want to train her anymore, if he would prefer to focus on other things.

“N-no, of course not. I only thought you might want to learn from someone who’s… well, who’s better. Than me.” He dropped his gaze to the ground and clasped his hands behind his back, feeling the old heat creep back up into his face as he spoke.

Sansa had stared at him, brows delicately furrowed, until he peeked back up at her. “Pod,” she gave a gentle shake of her head, “There isn’t anyone better than you. I’m never going to be Arya or Brienne; I’ve got no use for swords and swordplay. I’ll never fight like them. I asked you because I want you to teach me. Now, please. Show me that lunge again, I don’t think I did it right last time.”

* * *

Sansa had pursed her lips and nodded gravely at Pod as he and Brienne mounted up and prepared to leave Winterfell to head South for King’s Landing. They’d trained that morning, and Sansa had warned him, under her breath, that she was sending him South with Brienne.

He’d nodded, said nothing, but she’d seen the question in his eyes and shaken her head. “I need a representative in the South. Brienne needs you with her. And I… I need space. I have work to do.”

“That… that you can’t do with a guard around?” Pod had lowered his head, looked up at her through his eyebrows, carefully skeptical.

She’d been unable to stop the half-smile and sniff of amusement that flashed across her face before she’d sobered again. “Trust me, Pod. This is how it has to be.”

His expression had flickered, doubt clear on his face, but he’d nodded. “Of course, My Lady.”

“But come back,” she’d ordered, cocking an eyebrow and fixing him with her most imperious stare. “Safe and whole. I’ll want to resume my lessons as soon as possible.”

Pod had smiled then, shy and sweet. “Yes, My Lady. As soon as possible.”

That had been early this morning; it was approaching afternoon now, and Brienne wanted to be on the road right away.

“Podrick!” Brienne’s voice was sharp; whatever Sansa had said to her had left her in a foul mood. “Keep up, we haven’t got time to dawdle.”

Pod turned away from Sansa and clicked his tongue, urging his horse into a trot to keep up with Brienne.

* * *

“Still following the blonde giantess around, I see,” Bronn slid a mug of ale across the table to Pod.

“We serve Lady Stark,” Pod corrected, taking a sip of the ale and wiping the froth from his upper lip.

“Brienne serves Lady Stark,” Bronn argued, “and you serve Brienne. But I can see why you’d rather serve the Stark girl. Pretty little thing she was, when she was married to Tyrion. Imagine she’s grown into quite a beauty.” He laughed when Pod’s face flushed beet red as he attempted to stammer out a response. “It’s alright, Pod. You can say she’s pretty, it’s just you and me.” He leaned in. “You showed her your magic cock yet?”

Pod choked on his ale. “No! She’s a Lady!” He swiped at the ale that had splattered across his face and shook his head vehemently.

Bronn leaned back with a smug grin. “Thought about it though, haven’t ya?” Pod’s lips curled downward into a scowl, and Bronn laughed uproariously. “That’s alright, boy. I understand ya. I’ll not tell anyone you’re in love with your Lady.”

Pod opened his mouth to retort, and Bronn chuckled and took a long swig of ale. “It’s why I never pledge me services to pretty Ladies. They know too well how to get you to serve ‘em for free – although I suppose you know a thing or two about that too, now don’t ya?” He slapped Pod on the back and finished off his ale, calling for another one in the same breath as he’d emptied his tankard.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Every bit of feedback is cherished and appreciated!


	5. Chapter 5

The ride back to Winterfell had been hard and fast. Pod hadn’t minded, after spending so much time in the North he’d felt out of place in King’s Landing while they’d been there. Jaime Lannister had caught up to them on the Kingsroad; Brienne had glared down at him while he’d explained, told her Cersei wasn’t coming, that her forces would not help them in the Great War. Asked forgiveness. Nodded approvingly when Brienne told him both Stark girls were safe at Winterfell.

Pod had withdrawn as their conversation had grown softer, more muted. He rode behind them, slept farther away. Built fires and kept quiet while they ate, claiming only one hour of training in the morning with Brienne before fading back behind and simply doing his best to keep up as the Brienne and Jaime rode on ahead of him.

They reached Winterfell before Jon Snow and the Targaryen Queen, went straight to Sansa, told her all that had transpired in the South. Jaime Lannister had knelt before her, begged forgiveness for his part in the strife between their families. Offered his sword in the War against the Others, and his life as forfeit if she would not have him.

Sansa had been icy in her demeanor, said little, listened intently. Brienne had stepped forward, added a heartfelt plea for Jaime’s life, stood beside him and begged Sansa to allow him a place in the army of the North.  

After a long pause, Sansa had nodded. “Every other ruler I have ever known would have your head, Ser Jaime. Be grateful that I trust Brienne, and that a swordsman such as yourself is an asset we cannot do without if we are to put down this threat from North of the Wall. Rise, but know that the North remembers those who betray it, and be careful to keep your oath.”

“Thank you, Lady Stark.” The words clearly galled him, but Jaime bowed graciously and murmured, “You are gracious and wise. I think even your brother could do to learn from you.”

Sansa let out a cold, harsh laugh at that. “Go now, Ser Jaime, before I say something I regret. Tell one of the servants to find you a chamber. Brienne, stay. Please.”

Jaime bowed again and turned to go, the door latching softly behind him.

Sansa turned to Brienne. “Is it true? Has Jon really bent the knee to Daenerys Targaryen?”

Brienne nodded. “He said as much, in the Dragon Pits. To Cersei Lannister.”

Sansa huffed out a laugh. “I’m sure that pleased her.” No sooner had the words come out than her mouth hardened into a thin line. “He did, then. He just… gave away the North. To a Targaryen. I can’t believe… well, I can. The Lords won’t be happy. He’ll have to tell them himself. I’ll not deal with a mutiny without him here to answer for himself.”

“I’m sure he was only doing – “

“What he thought was best, yes I’m sure of it, too. But I find it difficult to believe that there wasn’t some compromise that could have been reached, rather than just bending the knee and making us all subjects of another Targaryen. A marriage, or some sort of bargain...” Sansa trailed off, raised a hand to her mouth, shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. It’s done. Now we have to ready ourselves to host an army… This Daenerys, she won’t expect us to feed her dragons, will she? We’ve barely enough to feed our people, much less two large dragons.” She got to her feet. “Thank you, Brienne. For everything. Now, please excuse me. There’s a lot to do.”

Brienne bowed and turned to leave, Pod moving to follow her. “Podrick?” Sansa’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Yes, My Lady?”

“I don’t suppose… I mean, obviously you’ll need to get some rest. But perhaps tomorrow, might we pick up training again?”

Pod ducked his head in an awkward half-bow and said, “Of course, My Lady. Whenever you wish.”

She smiled softly. “Wonderful. Regular time, then?”

“Yes, My Lady.”

“Good,” she tipped her head and stepped past him into the hall, stopping to wait as he closed the door behind them. “I’ll see you in the morning, Pod.”

* * *

Sansa had stood straight and tall as Jon and the Dragon Queen rode in through the gates of Winterfell, Arya and Bran by her side. She smiled warmly at Lord Tyrion and pointed him in Ser Jaime’s direction. Didn’t blink at the Dothraki stalking menacingly behind the queen, looked on fondly as Jon embraced Arya and Bran. She curtsied low and called the Targaryen ‘Your Grace’ and offered her the Lord’s chambers – Jon had stilled, watching Sansa carefully as she directed a servant to lead the queen to her quarters.

Jon had fallen back to walk beside her and muttered under his breath, “The Lord’s chambers are yours.”

Sansa kept her eyes fixed firmly ahead of her and murmured back, “As was the North, while you were gone, but you’ve given that to your new Queen, so I don’t see any reason to be precious with the Lord’s chambers now.”

He’d growled, low in his throat, half angry, half pleading, “Sansa, don’t be angry. I did what I had to do for the North.”

“And I kept the North together while you gave it away,” she hissed back. “I’m sure you did what you thought you had to, but how could you not at least consult me first? Why did you let weeks go by without a word from you? And then you expect to send a short note telling me you’ve bent the knee to the Targaryen invader, and I’m meant to just pave the way to make it alright for you?” 

“She’s not an invader, she’s good, she wants to do right by the people,” Jon argued.

Sansa stopped, turned to him, brows furrowed as she appraised him. “Oh, Jon,” she shook her head, disbelieving. “You’re in love with her?”

“We can’t win this war without her,” Jon said by way of response.

Sansa looked at him searchingly, then nodded curtly. “Then _you_ can tell the lords what you’ve done, and _you_ can tell them why. I’ve spent months defending your decision to go South. If you expect them to kneel to a Targaryen again, then it’s up to you to convince them. I’ll stand with you, but I won’t defend this. Now, I’ve got a feast to oversee with little food – I’m told all the food from the Reach was burned in a dragon attack – and less time to prepare it in. Excuse me.” She brushed past him and made her way to the kitchens, back held straight and head high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Y'all are the best, with your kudos and your comments! Each and every one is greatly appreciated!!


	6. Chapter 6

The feast had been a success; Pod had watched, slightly awed, as Sansa bustled about, giving directions and making sure everything was just right, and had stared, unable to help himself, as she stood at the head table in a demure yet intricately embroidered dress and welcomed all of their guests to Winterfell. Daenerys Targaryen might shine and catch the eye, her silver hair glowing in the torchlight and her face dewy with adoration for the man sat next to her, but Pod thought to himself that Sansa glowed, quiet and steady on the Jon Snow’s other side. Between the two women, Jon Snow almost looked a poor king, serious and brooding into his goblet as the hall rang with talk and laughter around him.

Sansa presided with grace as the food was served, and excused herself with no fanfare shortly after. Pod had asked Brienne if one of them ought to follow her, but Brienne had shaken her head and said she’d check in on her before she went to bed.

As Pod left the feast, he saw Arya leaning against the entrance to the crypts, twirling the gilded Valyrian steel dagger in her fingers. “She’s been down there since she left the feast,” she sauntered over to him. “I’ve been keeping an eye out. Lots of strange faces around here, won’t do to leave her alone.”

Another voice cut off any reply Pod might have made. “I thought that was you.” Arya’s eyes snapped to the figure approaching in the darkness. “It’s good to see you, Arry.” A tall, dark-haired man came to stand before Arya, and her lips drew into a thin line. The man frowned. “Arya? It’s me. Gendry.”

She fixed him with a withering stare. “I know who you are, you stupid.”

His eyebrows creased downward. “Right.”

Arya glared at him for a moment longer, then turned to Podrick. “Take over, will you? Just until I get back.”

“Yes, My Lady.” Pod nodded and gave a half-bow.

Arya scoffed. “Don’t bow to me, I’m not a lady. And I’ll kick your arse to prove it.” Behind her, Gendry chuckled; Arya’s fist flashed out and landed a solid blow on his bicep. “All of you and your stupid titles.” She chuckled and flashed Pod a wry grin. “You’re alright, Podrick. I see why she likes you. You.” She rounded on Gendry and grabbed onto his sleeve, dragging him away with a determined look on her face. “Come with me.”

Pod shivered and wrapped his cloak tighter around himself as he pressed himself against the wall to block himself from the wind as he waited for Sansa. Brienne appeared some time later, looking uneasy. “Lady Sansa didn’t go to her chambers. No one seems to know where she is.”

“She’s down there. In the crypts, I mean,” Pod stuck his hand out of his cloak enough to point to the entrance.

Brienne frowned. “Since dinner?”

“That’s what Arya said,” Pod replied, then asked, “Do you reckon she’s cold? I thought it might be good to get her an extra cloak, if she’s planning on staying down there any longer.”

Brienne nodded, though she seemed troubled. “You go and get one for her. I’ll go down and see if I can’t convince her to go to her chambers.”

She headed down into the crypts as Pod hustled into the castle, breathing a sigh of relief as he stepped inside and out of the biting wind. As he made his way through the halls, he passed Bran, who was being wheeled to his chambers by Maester Wolkan. “Are you getting a cloak for my sister?” Bran asked, his voice almost disconcertingly even.

“Yes, Lord Stark.”

“Good. But I’m not Lord Stark,” Bran shook his head. Before he was wheeled away, he offered in a slightly more forceful voice, “Better take her something to eat as well, Podrick. She hardly ate at supper, and you remember how she was after Robb died.”

Pod stared, befuddled, after Bran as he disappeared down the corridor. He remembered, of course. How Sansa had drawn into herself after her mother and brother had been slain at the Twins. How her eyes had been perpetually red and downcast and how she’d only spoken when addressed directly, and then only in short sentences. He remembered how Shae had begged her to eat, coerced Lord Tyrion into pleading with her as well. But Bran had been a thousand leagues away, at the Wall and beyond. How could he have known how his sister had acted?

He puzzled over Bran’s words as he bid one of Sansa’s maids to fetch one of her cloaks, and as he made his way to the kitchens to rummage around for some of the food that remained from the feast for Lady Sansa. The cooks provided him with a small bundle just as the maid returned with the cloak. Pod took both and passed along his and Lady Stark’s thanks, then headed back outside to find Brienne pacing outside the entrance to the crypts with a disgruntled look on her face. “She won’t come out. She would hardly speak to me at all. Take those down to her and see if she needs anything else. We may be in for a long night, if she wants to stay.”

“Yes, my lady,” Pod hesitated for a brief second before he took a deep breath and stepped down into the dark of the crypts. It was dark and deathly quiet, and he felt a tinge of uneasiness in the back of his neck. This was no place for him.

“Go away,” a cold voice cut through the darkness and stopped Pod in his tracks. “Just leave me alone, please. I only want a moment alone.”

Sansa was curled up on the ground, leaning back against the wall with her knees pulled tight against her chest, eyes locked on the statue across from her. Podrick assumed it must be her father’s grave – he had never laid eyes on the man himself, so he couldn’t be sure if the statue was of him or not. He couldn’t imagine who else Lady Sansa would come down here to see, though.

Pod murmured, “Sorry, My Lady. I only wanted to make sure you had a cloak to keep warm and something to eat, if you need it. You didn’t eat at supper.”

She started just slightly, but didn’t turn. “Oh. Podrick. I didn’t know it was you.”

“It’s me,” Pod shrugged, gathering up his courage. “It’s only… you’ve been down here a long time, and it’s getting colder; they’re worried.”

“Tell them I’m fine,” she replied, her voice quiet and faintly rasping, even as a slight shiver flickered down her spine. “It’s only… I’m… tired, Pod. I just needed some peace and quiet.”

“Of course, My Lady. I suppose Brienne has suggested you might get a better rest if you went to your chambers?”

She laughed, once, mirthlessly. “She has.”

“Alright. Well, if you’ll at least allow me,” Pod set the bundle of food down at her side, then held out the cloak. “It’s quite cold and getting colder. I thought you might want this, if you were to stay.”

At that, she actually looked up at him. “That’s… that’s kind of you, Pod. Thank you.” She reached up to pull the cloak from his hands and draped it over her lap.

“Can I get you anything else, My Lady?” Pod asked, fidgeting slightly as he looked down at her. For the first time he could recall, she looked almost small, curled up on the ground at his feet.

She huffed out another empty laugh. “Not unless you can get him to speak to me.” She motioned to the stone figure she’d been staring at. “He’d be able to tell me what to do. How to – “ she stopped, heaved a heavy sigh. “I just miss him, Pod.”

Pod stood frozen at her side, watching her, eyes wide. “I – I’m sorry, My Lady.”

Her eyes flickered back to him. “It’s alright. I’m being indulgent when there’s no time for it. It’s just silly, I’m being silly.”

“No.” Pod felt himself seized by what he thought must have been some madness and sank to a knee beside her. “My Lady, if I may. I don’t think it’s indulgent to miss your father, or to need some time to rest or be away from… all of that.” He motioned vaguely back at the steps he’d come down, and the world beyond them. “You’re very brave, Lady Sansa. Braver than anyone, I think. Only…”

She watched him, gaze sharp. “Only what?”

He’d said too much to back out now. “Only I think you won’t do yourself any good by freezing down here and not eating. I think you ought to rest and keep up your strength, and come at whatever it is you’re trying to puzzle out fresh in the morning. If your mind is in a tangle, Lord Tyrion told me once the best thing to do is stretch your legs and give it time to unknot itself.”

Sansa stared at him, mouth half-open, for an interminable second. Pod felt the heat rising in his cheeks and regret churning in his stomach, until a slow smile began to tug at her lips and the sick feeling in his stomach evaporated into something almost like relief. She gave a breathless little laugh and shook her head. “Honestly, Pod, it’s as though you’re a different person entirely from when we were in King’s Landing.”

“I’m not,” he shrugged, relaxing a bit and resting his arm atop his knee. “Different, I mean. I’m still just me. Pod.” He nudged the bundle of food toward her, and she rolled her eyes but picked it up and obediently tore off a piece of bread and began to nibble on it.

She narrowed her eyes at him, studying him as she finished her bite. “You talk more. I like that.”

Pod allowed a shy smile to creep across his face, then said, “You’re different, too. Than you were before. In King’s Landing.”

She ducked her head and let her hair hide her face for a moment before straightening and pursing her lips. “I was soft in King’s Landing. Innocent. I’m not anymore.”

Pod frowned. “No. You’re strong now. Like a queen, not sweet like a princess.”

“I’m not sweet anymore?” She cocked an eyebrow and raised a piece of cheese to her lips.

He flushed. “You are. I mean, you could be, I think. If you wanted to. But I think you don’t want to, now. Sometimes. You weren’t soft then, though. I don’t think. Just different. Fine like porcelain, like you needed to be in the South. But now you’re like steel, because to lead the North you must be steel.”

Sansa swallowed and stared at Pod for a long while, silent as her eyes searched his face. “You…” she frowned, just slightly. “That’s… that’s very kind. Do you really think so?”

“I do,” he nodded.

She smiled, eyes bright, and took a sip of wine from the flask Pod held out to her. “Thank you, Pod.”

They fell into a companionable silence as Sansa finished eating, but once she had had her fill, she asked, “Will you take me to my chambers, Pod?”

“Of course, My Lady.” He got to his feet and offered a hand to help her up. He pretended not to notice the slight tremor in her hand as she took it and allowed him to lift her to her to her feet, her long, slender fingers soft and surprisingly warm against the calluses in the palms of his own hands.

Pod bent down to retrieve the cloak that had fallen from Sansa’s lap and shyly moved to wrap it around her. She ducked her head, permission evident but unspoken, and he draped the heavy fabric over her shoulders and watched as she pulled it tighter around her. Pod motioned for her to go ahead of him and followed close behind, unable to look away from the way she set her shoulders and lifted her chin even as she walked, taking only the briefest moment to suck in a deep breath before she stepped out of the crypts and into the courtyard. The hour of the bat had nearly passed and the winds were whipping sharply around them, but somewhere in between that breath she had taken and the step into the daylight, the Lady Stark of Winterfell had taken over Sansa’s fragile bearing and she didn’t so much as flinch as the mid-night chill hit her body, though Pod’s body was wracked with shivers as he stepped out behind her.

Brienne was waiting for them, but stopped short of saying anything as Pod informed her, “She’s going up to bed; I’ll see her to her chambers. You can get to bed now, my lady.”

Brienne’s eyebrows jumped upwards just slightly at the authority in the squire’s voice, but she nodded and replied, “You rest as well, Podrick. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Pod jerked his chin in affirmation, then hurried to catch up to Sansa.

He walked just half a step behind her, marveling to himself at how straight she stood, how she kept her face cold, detached, completely still and her head high as she moved, a queen even without the title. They reached her chambers and stepped into the small solar that stood adjacent. Pod turned to her. “Get some rest, My Lady. Everything will work itself out, and if you need more time tomorrow, I’m sure Lady Brienne or I can escort you to the crypts or the godswood and stand guard to make sure no one disturbs you.”

She smiled, exhaustion radiating from every piece of her. “Thank you, Podrick. You… You’re very kind.”

He turned to go, but something in her face made him stop, turn back, and ask, “A – are you alright, My Lady? I – I know you said you were only tired, but you spend all your time making sure everyone else is alright. I hope you are, as well.”

Sansa blanched, mouth opening and closing briefly, then shook her head. “Yes. I mean, I – I will be. I am. I – “ She sucked in a breath. “Everything is… I.” She looked up at her companion and felt as though all of the breath had been stolen from her, as though the ice inside her had melted entirely under his gaze. Pod’s eyes were so kind, so understanding. He listened so intently, made no judgements.

She clenched her fists, then spread her fingers wide apart, yanking off her gloves and tossing them aside. “I’m just… Pod, I’m angry. I’m angry and I know Jon is doing what he thinks is best, but how could he do this? Just because she’s beautiful and maybe even kind, how could he just… give the North back to her? After all we fought for? After Robb and my mother _died_ for our independence? Without knowing what kind of ruler she is, truly?” She paused, and all of her angry energy seemed to sap out of her at once. She wilted, though even that was almost imperceptible, her shoulders nearly as straight as they always were, the only sure indicator of her distress her hands twisting in the folds of her skirt. “My father would have known what to say, so that I could forgive him and move forward. And I’ll move forward, but I don’t know how to forgive him. Not now. We’ve only barely reclaimed this place, and I gave it away again today, because Jon gave it away gods know how many weeks ago. And he never even thought to speak to me.”

She looked at him, and Podrick thought he’d never seen anything so sad, never wanted so badly to comfort anyone. “I’m sorry, My Lady.”

She shook her head. “There’s no need to apologize, you had nothing to do with it.”

“I’m – “ He stopped himself from apologizing again. “Is… is there anything I can do? I can’t – I don’t know the right thing to say. I never do. But if there’s anything I can – I know it’s stupid, but – I… I’d like to help, if I can.”

The look on her face nearly knocked him flat, as did the half-sob, half-laugh that escaped her as she shook her head slightly and scrubbed at her eyes. “How have you done it, Pod? How have you stayed so kind? I’ve lost that part of me, I think.”

Pod had watched, frozen, terrified, as she turned in on herself, and desperately unsure of what else to do, instinctively reached out to place a comforting hand on her arm. “You haven’t, My Lady. I see it still. Your kindness. Every day.” As he’d made contact, he’d nearly yanked his arm away, shocked by his own audacity, but before he could manage it, she fell into him, allowing him to wrap his arms around her and fitting her head into the crook of his neck. Pod held her close, trying to absorb her trembling into his own body, to take it from her and lend her what little strength he had. He pressed his cheek against her temple and kept his own breathing steady even as hers came in unsteady little gasps.

He felt it when her knees gave out and held on tighter, keeping her upright as he sank slowly to the ground and tucked her against his chest, his breath hitching as she curled into him, fingers clutching at his chest as she struggled for control.

He didn’t know how long they sat there, on the floor of her solar, a few minutes, an hour, more? But he felt it when the tension slowly eased from her body and her breathing found a slow and steady rhythm. He leaned down, his cheek against her forehead, and asked, “Shall we get you into bed?”

She nodded against him and allowed him to slip an arm beneath her knees, lifting her as he got to his feet and carried her into the next room, eased her beneath the furs of her bed. She held on to him, though, as he tried to straighten, and murmured softly, “Don’t go?”

“I’ll be right here, My Lady,” Pod nodded. “I’ll sit just there,” he pointed to the chair at her dressing table. “I won’t leave until you want me to.”

She smiled, and, always the proper lady, whispered a, “Thank you, Podrick,” even as she drifted off to sleep.

Pod settled into the chair he had pointed out and watched her as she slept, thinking that surely she was the very picture of what the Maiden would look like, if the Seven were to ever show themselves to men. In sleep, Sansa’s face smoothed and small strands of hair that had worked loose from her intricate stylings twisted down onto her face and Pod thought that he might never have seen anything quite so lovely in his entire life.

Bronn’s mocking words floated back into his mind as the minutes ticked by. _I’ll not tell anyone you’re in love with your Lady._

Podrick lurched to his feet, paced a quick lap around the room, then poked at the fire and added another log to it, grateful that someone had thought to have it lit even though Sansa had not been there since before evenfall.

Bronn shouldn’t say things like that. And Pod shouldn’t think them, either. He’d be a damned fool if he allowed himself to fall in love with the Lady of Winterfell. She was far, far above him and for all the tales of knights and their ladies that Pod had grown up hearing, he’d do well to remember he wasn’t a knight, and Sansa Stark would never deign to be his Lady.

He added another log to the fire, then settled back in to his seat, relishing the warmth and resting his head on his hand. Thoughts swirled round his head as he sat, and as the warmth settled into his bones he raised the sound of the crackling fire over the whirling in his mind and felt the silence falling over him; his eyelids began to droop, darkness rose to meet the silence, and Pod slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all for reading!!!! I'd love any feedback you have, I had a hard time with this chapter, because I think Sansa is soooo so strong, and I hope I didn't make her come off as weak here, but also like, I also think it might be good for my girl to have a good cry just once before all the shit goes down. Anyways. Y'all are the best. I hope you like!


	7. Chapter 7

Sansa woke to find the earliest light of the day peeking in through the windows of her chamber and Pod slumped in the chair by the fireplace, breathing slowly and deeply though she couldn’t imagine he was comfortable, sleeping with his head lolling to one side and his arms crossed over his chest. She sat up, shivering just slightly as her toes touched the ground and the cold of the stone floors leeched through the fabric of her stockings. The fire had burned down to embers, and she padded across the room to warm her hands. She placed some smaller sticks on the heap and blew gently on it to coax the embers back to life, relishing the heat as the tongues of flame licked up to catch the kindling enough that she was able to add another log.

Once the fire was going again, she moved to the small table on the other side of the fireplace and removed all the pins from her hair, using her fingers to card through and loosen all the braids and twists before she picked up her brush and tugged it through her thick locks, soothing the sleep-induced tangles and yawning as the last vestiges of sleep faded from her mind. She thought, as she brushed, that this stillness, with the warm, soothing crackling of the fire and Pod’s deep breathing in the background seemed as close to peaceful as she had felt in a long time. She set the brush down and moved to tend the fire again, her hair flowing loose around her shoulders, allowing herself to wish for just a heartbeat that this lovely, quiet moment would last, perhaps forever. This was the peace she had sought last night in the crypts, she realized, and was somehow only mildly surprised to find that it was Pod who seemed to have been able to bring it about.

Just then, the wood in the fireplace crackled and popped loudly, giving Sansa a slight start and causing Podrick to jolt awake in his chair. Sansa bit back a smile as she watched him get his bearings, face befuddled as the fogginess faded from his eyes. He rubbed a hand over half of his face, to wake himself up. “I’m sorry, Lady Sansa. I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he mumbled, voice rough with exhaustion.

She smiled and shook her head, crouching down beside him and placing a hand on his arm to still his movements. “You needn’t rush, Podrick. You needed the rest as much as I did – little as it was. I’m sorry I woke you.” She spoke softly, hoping to prolong the quiet ease of the moment before just a little longer.

Pod sat up, sleep receding from his mind and being quickly replaced with alarm at the realization that he’d slept the remainder of the night in Sansa Stark’s chambers. At her request, but still. He wondered how angry Brienne would be with him. “No, I’m sorry. I meant to stay awake and keep watch for you. You asked me to stay and I fell asleep.”

She scowled then, an expression he had never seen cross her face before. It was hardly intimidating – he’d been subject to some truly chilling looks from Brienne and never been excessively unnerved by them, but even so. Sansa was usually so composed, it was somewhat disconcerting to see her face wrinkle with active displeasure. “Podrick. If what Jon says is true, we all need to take care of ourselves while we can, before the White Walkers come. It won’t do to have you neglecting your own rest to keep an eye on me while we’re still safe in Winterfell.”

He flushed at that and ducked his head. “Apologies, My Lady. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

A brief moment passed, but then Sansa’s expression softened immeasurably and she gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “You haven’t. I only mean for you to take care of yourself the way you seem so willing to do for others. I’ve come to rely on you, and it simply won’t do for you to wear yourself out or even make yourself ill using all your strength to bolster others. To bolster me. Whatever’s going to happen will happen soon, I think. I simply want you to have as much of your strength when it comes so you’re ready to face it. I want it for all of us. I don’t know what else to do anymore.” She sighed, her eyes dropping to her lap. “Everything I’ve learned, everything Petyr Baelish taught me, everything Cersei taught me, Margaery, my mother. It’s not enough.” Her voice had trailed off into a whisper as she finished speaking.

Pod didn’t even hesitate to respond, “You are, though. Enough. Everything you do, it’s what’s needed. No one could do better. No one.”

Her eyes flickered back up to his and her lips twisted up into a brief, rueful smile. “Thank you, Pod. For all you do.”

“Of course, Lady Sansa. Anything I can do to help.”

The smile grew wider, and her eyes flickered shut for a moment before she straightened and stood again. “We’ve to get moving if we’re going to have any time to train this morning.”

Pod started to his feet. “Yes, of course. Training. Right away, My Lady.”

She allowed half a chuckle to escape her lips before she reached back to begin twisting her hair into one long plait. “Are you ready now?”

“Of course,” he nodded, adjusting his cloak to hang evenly around his neck. “I’ll just…” He motioned to the door and moved toward it, but stopped when she called after him.

“Wait.” He turned back to her, and her cheeks tinged pink in the early morning light. “Would you… if anyone asks, what happened last night, just… would you not tell them? How weak I was? I can’t have anyone knowing. Not even Jon or Brienne. Please.”

His eyebrows folded inward, just for a second, but then he nodded again. “I won’t say a word, My Lady. I’d certainly never tell anyone you were weak. No one would believe it. Not even me,” he risked a small grin, and she returned it gratefully.

“You’re a good man, Pod.”

“I hope so, My Lady.” Pod ducked his head. “Best get down there,” he jerked his chin toward the door.

She finished braiding and tied off the end of her hair with a strip of leather. “Yes, I’ll be right behind you.”

Pod watched her for another second, then bowed, just slightly, and disappeared through the door, shutting it gently behind him.

* * *

Jon made his way up to Sansa’s new chambers and let himself into her solar. Sansa had risen at dawn, as usual, and was making her morning rounds in order to get everything ready for the army’s departure on the morrow, but Jon needed to speak to her in private. He knew she would return to her chambers soon to eat a quick midday meal; she usually did so with Petyr Baelish, but Arya had informed Jon last night that Littlefinger was dead, that she had done the deed herself. He didn’t know what to feel about that; the Arya he’d left at Winterfell was not the same Arya he’d returned to. Not that he was the same Jon he’d been when she’d last seen him, either. He crossed the small room and stood beside the table near the fireplace, studying the books and parchments spread out over its surface. He wondered how long Sansa had been in these rooms; the layers of paper stacked up on the table seemed to indicate that it had been some time.

The door creaked open, and Sansa stepped in, shutting the door behind her. She seemed unsurprised to see him, even as he frowned at a piece of parchment and pushed it aside to look at the scroll below it. “I see you’ve been keeping things running while I’ve been gone.”

“Just as you asked me to,” she nodded, smoothing her skirts. She crossed the room to stand at his side. “Are you looking for something?”

“Just you,” he looked up. “I wanted to speak with you. We’ve not had much of a chance since yesterday.”

She took a deep breath. “Yes, sorry. There’s so much to do, and not much time to do it in.”

“Bran said you were down in the crypts a long time last night. Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she replied, a momentary smile flickering across her lips. “I am now. I thought I needed to be down there with them, but I couldn’t feel them. I felt… cold. I’ve never felt cold here, before.”

“Aye,” he jerked his chin in affirmation. “That’s the Others. The winter they bring bites in a way I’ve never felt before.” She made a noise to signal her acquiescence, and Jon frowned. “But you’re still angry with me.”

Her eyes jumped to his face, finally. “No. I mean, yes. I was. I’m…” she shook her head, as if to clear it. “Sorry. I’m not angry. Not now. You said we have to trust each other and you’re right, and I’m trusting you, but Jon, are you sure…? It doesn’t feel right.” She trailed off, pursing her lips together.

Jon gave a jerk of his chin. “I’m sure.” But since she’d come to him at the Wall, he’d never seen Sansa at a loss for words like this. It unnerved him in a way that little else did anymore. He pressed on anyways. “I promised you I’d keep you safe. That I wouldn’t let any harm come to you. This is the only way.” It had to be, he’d invested too much into it to doubt himself now.

“I know that. And I trust you. I just… I wish the price to save the North hadn’t been the North. I wish you’d spoken to me first. Jon, I don’t want – I’ve tried, so hard. Not to be angry with you. But I don’t understand. I don’t understand why this price is fair to you. It’s not what we fought for. It’s not what _Robb_ fought for.” She hated the way her voice sounded, so needful and so plaintive. But he had to understand what he had done, what was being lost here.

His voice, in comparison to hers, was so even, so sincere, the same honest Jon she knew she could always believe in. There was an edge, as well, though. Not anger, but determination. “I know it isn’t. And I’m sorry. But Daenerys won’t take Winterfell from us. From you and Arya and Bran. I won’t let her.”

She sighed. He meant it, and perhaps for now that would have to be good enough. “Good. Because I won’t. Winterfell is my home. I’m stronger here. We all are.” She didn’t know how long that could be, feared what would happen if this Daenerys came back from the North and Jon didn’t. Some part of her refused to even acknowledge the possibility that Jon might not come back home and stay, but another, more insidious part of her mind whispered that there might be some part of Jon that didn’t want to come back, that he didn’t anticipate needing to know what would come when the Others were defeated. She shuddered and pushed the thought down. Petyr would have said not to, but Petyr wasn’t here and she would think about what she might do about that tomorrow, when Jon was gone, and Daenerys and their armies with them.

“I know. You won’t lose it again, not if I’ve anything to say about it.”

“Do you?” Perhaps she shouldn’t press him, but she needed to know, to understand. “Does she listen to you, Jon? Does she heed your counsel? Do you trust hers?”

“Yes.” One word, bitten out through a clenched jaw.

“Truly?” He sucked in his breath, and she hurried to cut off whatever retort he was building up to, “I’m not trying to make you angry, Jon. I just… Did you… has Sam – and Bran – have they spoken with you?”

“Aye.” He jerked his chin, once, curtly. His hand trembled, just for a moment, before he curled it around the edge of the table, gripping it as if to center himself. “They did.”

“And?” She was studying him intently now, brows furrowed, putting a soft crease between her eyes. “Have you told her?”

Painful seconds ticked by, at least a dozen, perhaps more before Jon sucked in a breath and scrubbed at his eyes, shaking his head as he did. “No. I haven’t.” Sansa’s eyes flickered shut and she exhaled slowly, feeling a sort of sickness rising in her stomach. Before she could say anything, Jon added, “I don’t know that I should… Sansa, what should I do? What does it mean, or matter?”

“It doesn’t. Not if you don’t want it to. You’re still a Stark. You’re still our brother.” She placed a hand on his, gentle but steady, cool against the warmth of his skin. “But… it could. It could matter a great deal. Jon, you never asked for it, but this gives you a stronger claim than Daenerys.”

“I don’t want – “

“I know. I know you don’t want it. But that doesn’t make it nothing,” she swiveled to face him, leaning up to catch his eye and hold it. “If you don’t trust her, if you’re worried about her in any way, then it may be a way to ensure our safety, our family’s and that of the North, and maybe even of all Seven Kingdoms. But if you truly do trust her, if she is really a worthy queen who listens to good counsel and learns and will do right by the people, then you may be able to let it be nothing. Either way, at the very least, it’s a chip. Or it could be, if you use it.” Jon scoffed at that, but she pressed on, “Secure the North for us. For Bran and Arya. If she is the good and just queen that you say she is, then tell her that you’ve no interest in pressing your claim as long as you know your people,” she motioned to the papers on the table with her free hand, “and your family will always have a place, and their freedom.”

He stared down at her, troubled. “Is that what Littlefinger would tell me to do?”

She sighed, shook her head. “No. He would tell you to press your claim no matter what. To marry her and make her your queen, but never let her forget who you are or the power you hold. It’s a strong chip, and he would urge you to make full use of it.”

“Arya told me. What happened to him. What she did.”

“I thought you’d be pleased,” her voice was so soft, almost pleading. “I know you wanted him gone.”

“I did, but did you? Arya said I should ask you how it happened.”  

She shook her head. “Of course I did. He tried to pull us apart, me and you, me and Arya, keep us separate and alone so he could play his games. He’s dead, Jon. We tried him, and he was found guilty. Arya carried out the sentence. He’s dead, and the armies of the Vale are mine to command now. We’re free of him. _I’m_ free of him,” she finished with a small, shaky sigh, and beside her she felt Jon relax, just a bit.

Jon lifted his arm and wrapped it around her shoulders. “I am pleased. You’ve done well, Sansa. I’m proud of you.” He turned and pressed a kiss into her hair. “Thank you. For trusting me.”

She leaned into him, rested her head on his shoulder. “Of course. You’ve never let us down, Jon. You’re part of our pack – that’s what Arya would call it – and we’ll trust your judgment, brother.”

“Brother?” he asked.

Sansa felt her heart sink at the weight of that one word, the hurt and uncertainty she heard there; she turned and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her forehead into his collarbone. “Yes. You’re still a Stark, Jon. It doesn’t matter who your parents are, not to me or Arya, and not to the men who chose you as their king. You can be Jon Snow or Jon Stark or Jon Targaryen or whoever you want, but you’ll still be our Jon, no matter what. You’re ours, and we’re keeping you.”

“And the queen? Daenerys? What are you doing with her?” he wanted to know.

Sansa shrugged, then dropped her arms from around Jon and took a half step back to catch his eye. “Following your lead.”

Jon held her gaze for a moment, absorbing all she had said aloud as well as all that she hadn’t had to say, then nodded. “Thank you, Sansa.”

She smiled at him, feeling a renewed sense of comfort and trust settling back in between them. She knew she didn’t have to ask, but she did anyway. Just to be sure. “Before you decide, will you at least tell me? Do what you think is right, but please. Talk to me first. I promise not to argue, if you don’t want me to. I just… I’d like you to trust me, too.”

“I do, Sansa. More than anyone.”

Her lips quirked, and she tilted her head, suddenly teasing. “I know.”

Jon chuckled and they shared a laugh before he motioned to the table. “We need to meet Tyrion and Daenerys to make the rest of our plans before we leave. Do we need any of this?”

“No,” Sansa shook her head. “Tyrion asked to look over things so I had them sent to his chambers earlier. He’ll bring them with him.”

“Good,” Jon nodded. “Let’s go, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaaaaaaatt? Less than two weeks between updates?? Madness. Anyways, thanks on thanks to all of you for reading, every bit of feedback and every kudos (kudo?) you leave is a jewel in the crown of my ego, so thanks in advance for that! ;) This is more of a Jon and Sansa chapter cuz my babies needed to clear the air, but I hope you all enjoy it anyway.


	8. Chapter 8

“M – My Lady?” Pod frowned, baffled, standing at the front of the now nearly empty Great Hall with Brienne and Jaime.

Brienne huffed, frustrated. “Kneel, Podrick. If you’re to fight this war it will have to be your own choice, not from any sense of duty to me. You’re a man grown; Jaime is going to knight you.”

“But why – why him? No offense, My Lord,” he added quickly, glancing at Jaime.

“None taken,” Jaime nodded, half a smirk on his lips. “Brienne believes that since she has never been knighted she cannot very well knight another. I’ve told her she’s being foolish, but I’m perfectly willing to perform the duties if you’re willing to be knighted by the Kingslayer, little as knighthood even means.”

“Of course I am. I – I’d be honored. To be knighted by you, I mean,” Pod hastened to reply. “I only… Are – are you sure, my lady?” He watched Brienne uncertainly.

Brienne stared at him for a long moment, then nodded, jerkily. “You’re ready.” She sucked in a breath and continued quickly, “That doesn’t mean you’ve nothing left to learn. And there’s little in it to improve your station, no position, no money, no more glory than you’d have received as a squire. But it’s important to me that you make this choice yourself. Jon Snow seems convinced that a great many of this army will fall at the hands of the dead. I will not allow you to follow me or anyone else blindly into what may very well be certain death. You must make the choice on your own. I can grant you your independence, and as long as you stay in the North, King Jon and Lady Sansa won’t allow you to be in danger from anyone in the South. Whatever danger brought us together is gone, and you have to decide how you are to face the danger that’s ahead. Or if you wish to at all. Now kneel, so Jaime can knight you.”

Still a bit befuddled, Pod obeyed. Jaime cleared his throat and reached for the sword at his hip. “No.” Brienne cut him off, unsheathed Oathkeeper from her own sheath. “Use this.” She pressed it into Jaime’s hand, a meaningful look passing between the two. Pod glanced away, feeling keenly that he was not a part of this, whatever it was his Lady shared with Jaime Lannister.

Jaime cleared his throat again, and Pod’s eyes snapped back to his face. He extended the sword, placed it on Pod’s right shoulder. “Podrick Payne, do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?”

“I do,” Pod jerked his head forward, his best approximation of a nod as his breath came a bit shorter.

“Wonderful.” Jaime lifted the sword and dropped it to Pod’s other shoulder. “You’re a knight, then. Rise, Ser Podrick. Do not forget your oath. Or do, it means little and less. Do whatever you think best and be ready to make the best of whatever comes of it.”

Pod looked to Brienne, who took a brief break from scowling at Jaime to jerk her chin in affirmation. “You’ve done well, Podrick. You’re a good man, you were a good squire, and you’ll make a good knight.” She reached out to Jaime, who handed Oathkeeper back to her with a quick nod.

“Indeed,” a new voice cut across the hall. Jon Snow was striding towards them from the far end of the room. “Lady Brienne and my sister Sansa have both spoken very highly of you, Ser Podrick. I’m very grateful for all you’ve done for my family. And I’ve a great favor to beg of you.”

“M- My Lord?” Pod stammered, struggling to his feet.

Jon extended a hand, clasping arms with Podrick and giving a firm shake. “You’re a knight now. Lady Brienne wishes you to have a say in whether you fight in this war, as do I. But I also wish you to have a choice in the manner in which you serve. You are, of course, welcome to march with us. We need every available sword. But I’ve a greater task in mind for you, if you’re willing.”

“Of – of course. What is it?” Pod asked, glancing at Brienne, who stood, tight-lipped, just behind him.

“My sister. Sansa. I’ve convinced her to stay here when we march. We need someone here to organize those who stay behind, to keep everyone fed and cared for. And there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. But I don’t want to leave her here unprotected. Lord Tyrion will stay behind as well, but he’s no fighter. He told me you’re responsible for saving his life. You’ve saved Sansa’s, as well. Perhaps more than once. She trusts you implicitly, and from all I know of you, you have earned every ounce of that trust. I’d like to ask you to stay with her. To protect her. My greatest hope is that you will never have to fight, but I would take great comfort knowing that if it came to it, Sansa would have someone to fight for her.”

“Of course, if it does come to it, then I can’t imagine one extra guard making much of a difference against an army of the dead,” Jaime Lannister added sardonically.

Jon Snow turned to glare at him, but dipped his head after a long moment. “Perhaps. Ser Jaime may be right. But if I may ask any service of you, I would ask you to serve as her protector. I’ve done the best I could for the time I’ve been with her, but there must be someone to fill that role when I’m gone – ” 

“But you don’t have to,” Sansa’s voice, icy and quite still, cut off whatever further words Jon might have. She had appeared silently in the entrance to the hall. She moved purposefully across the hall. “Podrick – Ser Podrick,” she corrected herself with a brief, soft smile, “You have sworn fealty to no one, to no house, to no king or queen. You owe us nothing, and we owe you a great deal.”

Pod shook his head. “You don’t – “

“Please,” Sansa held up a hand as she reached the small gathering, placing it gently on Pod’s wrist and giving a gentle squeeze. She was dressed again as the Lady of Winterfell, but her eyes were as warm and soft as they had been earlier, alone in her chambers. “I just want you to understand, Pod. Jon is only offering one option of many. You can stay behind with Lord Tyrion and I, as my guard or simply as yourself. We will ask nothing of you. You can ride with the army, with Brienne and Ser Jaime. You can ride South, find somewhere warm and keep out of all of this entirely. We can’t protect you at all in the South, but you ought to know your options. _You_ have a choice.” At this, she’d turned to glare at Jon, who met her gaze with one of his own, though his was less angry and more troubled than that of his sister. Pod wondered for a moment what words they had exchanged when no one else was around.

“I – I don’t – “ Pod stammered, entirely at a loss.

“You have until morning to decide whether you ride with us or not,” Brienne spoke up, saving him. “Rest tonight, and in the morning we will see what you’ve decided.”

“Yes. Thank you, Lady Brienne. Lord Snow – Your Grace, I mean. Lady Sansa. I shall give you my answer in the morning. If that’s alright?”

“Of course, Podrick,” Jon nodded. “Get some rest. We’ll not pressure you any further tonight. You’ve a big task ahead of you, whatever you decide.”

Pod nodded, jerkily, and made his way out of the hall, keenly aware of each of the sets of eyes trained on his back as he went. “Pod!” He glanced back to see Sansa hurrying to catch up with him. “May I walk with you? Just for a brief moment.”

“Of course, My Lady. Sansa.” He dipped his head downward in a nod of acquiescence.

They headed down the hallway and around a corner before stopping, almost at the same moment, coming to stand quietly beside each other. Pod turned to her, though she kept her gaze forward, refusing to look at him. “What – what should I do, My Lady? Do you want me to stay? And guard you, I mean.”

Sansa drew a deep breath, but didn’t look up as she responded, “Of course I’d like you to stay. Everyone else is leaving, Pod, and if you went and something were to happen to you – ” she stopped, shuddering, and with a jolt realized that she meant it. She wanted him to stay, not just to keep her safe but in order to keep him safe as well. She meant it deep in her soul, and just beneath that desperate need for him to be safe, to keep him near, was buried a sharp, immobilizing fear that something would happen to him if he left. She felt her breath growing short, but she shook herself and pushed the fear to the back of her mind. She was the Lady of Winterfell, and Pod wasn’t Jon. He was no king. She could order him to stay. She could have him at her side; he would obey without question.

Her eyes darted, almost of their own accord to the side, just to get a quick glance at his face. He was watching her so carefully, so earnestly. She couldn’t order him to do anything, she realized. She didn’t know what he wanted, not truly. He was willing to serve her, just as he’d been willing to serve Brienne, and Tyrion before her. There hadn’t been any true freedom in that, though. Not really. She couldn’t take that from him, not when he’d only just gotten it. She wanted him to choose her – no, not choose her. Except… except that she did. She wanted Pod to choose her, to choose to stay with her, more than she could ever remember wanting to be chosen by anyone else before. She squared her shoulders and turned to face him. “What do you want, Pod?” 

He hesitated. “I want to do my part. And I want you to be safe. I want to serve in whatever way is best. I don’t know what that is. Perhaps it’s just best to do as your brother asks.”

She chewed on her bottom lip for one moment before a flicker of a memory from what seemed to be another life passed through her mind – the ghost of Old Nan scolding an Arya who no longer existed for doing the very same thing. She released her lip, caught his gaze and held it with her own. “You owe Jon nothing, Pod. Nor me. You’ve served Brienne well and in serving her you’ve served me and all of Winterfell and all of the North. But you’re a knight, now. Not a squire. The choice is yours to make. No one else’s. You’ve sworn no vows to any king or any lord.”

“I’d swear them to you,” Pod said.

Sansa blanched as she felt her heart stop cold in her chest for just a moment. “You – Pod – I’m not asking you to.” Could it really be this easy?

“I know. But I would. Swear. Like Brienne did, first to your mother and then to you. I could serve you, my lady.” He was so earnest, his voice soft and warm and as comforting in itself as the way he’d held her earlier that day.

Gods. It was that simple. He was offering to choose her. No. Choosing to serve her. That wasn’t the same, she could feel it in her chest, the way her heart twisted and sank as she realized the distinction. Her brows furrowed, and her hand flickered up, almost of its own accord, to land lightly on his cheek. “Pod.” His name fell from her lips, as soft and natural as a breath, her eyes now somehow caught in his, soaking up the warmth and strength that she saw in them, that she knew he wanted her to have. She’d given Pod gifts over their time together, and while he’d been unable to materially do the same, he’d been so generous in his own way, giving so much of himself to her and to everyone around him. He was about to give more now, she could feel it.

He dropped to his knee and lowered his head, speaking slowly and deliberately. “I offer you my services, Lady Sansa. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I – I swear it by the Old Gods and the New."

“Don’t,” her voice came out a broken whisper, the hand that had just been on his cheek now clenched at her side. “Get up, please.”

He didn’t for a long moment, didn’t move at all, and Sansa felt her heart thudding painfully as the seconds passed, long and silent. After an eternity, without lifting his head Podrick asked, “Are you refusing my services, My Lady?” His voice was so soft, she could tell she’d hurt him, and she thought the knowledge might break her.

She shook her head, even though she knew he couldn’t see her. “I’m tired of vows, Podrick. If you want to stay, then stay. Not because you’ve sworn a vow to me, or because Jon asked you to, but because this is where you feel you need to be.”

At this, he looked up – finally – eyes searching, and gave one slow nod. He understood, she could see that. He always somehow did. He rose, holding her gaze, and she couldn’t help but reach out again and place her hands on his cheeks. “Whatever you decide, my good Ser Podrick. No one will ever doubt your mettle, and I’m grateful for all you’ve done for us – for me – already.”

They stayed that way for a long time, gazes locked, unmoving, until after a minute or two had passed, Pod reached up and placed his hands over hers, pulling them down and holding them near his chest. “I – I need to go. The best way for me to protect you is to help to stop the dead before they reach you – and the others, of course. Do you think Jon – your brother – King Jon will understand?”

Her eyes flickered shut; she swallowed, eyes closed, and nodded slowly but said nothing. He released her hands and turned to go. “Pod.” He stopped and turned back to face her. She looked at him for a long moment, then promised, “You will always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. Come back, please. When everything is over. I do rely on you."

Pod nodded, jerkily, and replied, “Of course, My Lady. Sansa. Thank you,” before he turned and walked away, fighting back the sick feeling in his stomach as he felt her watch him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and for all the feedback, you beautiful, shiny land mermaids! You're the best!


	9. Chapter 9

Sansa paced back and forth along the battlements of Winterfell, watching for a flutter of wings on the wind, listening for the sound of a horse, the ringing of a horn – anything.

It had been a week since the armies of the living had left to head north, toward the Wall. The day after Jon had arrived with the Targaryen queen, in their meeting with Tyrion and Daenerys, he’d told her his plans – to ride north with the armies, to leave Sansa behind as the Stark in Winterfell. Sansa had argued with Jon (she hadn’t promised not to argue with him about this, only about his parents), shouted at him, pleaded with him not to be left behind – insisted she would ride with the Knights of the Vale, or stay at the back of the train with the Silent Sisters and other nurses – all to no avail. She remained, the Stark in Winterfell, with Tyrion Lannister, a handful of guards from both the Northern and Targaryen armies, and a few hundred various Northerners and Wildlings who were unable to fight for various reasons.

Arya had asked no one’s permission, and no one had attempted to stop her as she swung herself up onto a horse and rode out behind Jon, with Robert Baratheon’s bastard by her side. Winterfell felt eerily empty, with so few souls inhabiting it. Bran had also remained behind, but he spent all his days in the Godswood, doing whatever it was he did now. ‘Playing his part in the battle,’ he had told her, when she’d asked. He’d offered no further explanation, and Sansa hadn’t bothered to press him further. Nothing he said would be any clearer than that.

Sansa spent most of her days trying to keep busy, spending her mornings running the castle and afternoons talking with Tyrion, but with few people and less food, she was often finished with her day-to-day tasks by midday and spent all her free time pacing the battlements or sitting in the crypts or praying in the Godswood. There was no one left, no Lords whose complaints she could hear, no armor left to be made and no armorer left behind to make it. So little to do but wait.

Jon had warned her to be ready to retreat south at a moment’s notice, so she had spent two days directing the few inhabitants left in Winterfell to load everything into wagons in case a hasty departure should become necessary. The cooks groused some, early in the mornings when they had to carry the entire day’s worth of food from the wagons to the kitchens, but Sansa smiled and listened to them complain and knew that the griping allowed them to push their fear aside and carry on. She missed Jon, Arya, Brienne, Podrick. Sometimes she played cyvasse with Tyrion, and though she won as often as she lost, it was not the effective diversion she needed.

She had taken to sleeping in, lately, rising a full hour or two after dawn, which would have felt positively extravagant if she didn’t wake up with fear clutching her insides and little to do to assuage it. She couldn’t even train in the mornings now, with Podrick gone. Some days, when it was particularly quiet, she could almost convince herself she was angry with him for going, for leaving her here alone just like everyone else had. She wasn’t, of course. She’d given him a choice and he’d made it, and she couldn’t fault him for it, even if she could and often did find herself wishing he’d chosen to stay with her – not for protection, necessarily, but just for the peace of mind that his presence had come to signify for her. She knew she oughtn’t delve any deeper into why that was or what it meant that she so badly wished he had wanted to stay, but in the quieter moments she almost did anyways.

The waiting was unbearable. Waiting for news, for the army to return, for the White Walkers to come and finish them all.

Sometimes Sansa thought that she didn’t care what happened as long as she finally got some sort of answer. She thought she could face death quite bravely, not sniveling or crying or screaming, if only she could finally know what was happening, what it was she had been waiting here for.

There was a dark shape coming from the godswood – Sansa squinted her eyes and was able to make out the outline of Bran’s chair, with Maester Wolkan behind him, pushing slowly. It was earlier than Bran usually came in. She turned and made her way down to the courtyard, sending a young boy running for Tyrion.

She resumed her pacing, back and forth across the courtyard, looking up only when Bran’s shape materialized at the gates. She moved to him. “What is it?”

He looked up at her, eyes fixed on her face and yet somehow still distant. “They’re coming. There are too many. The wounded will arrive in a few hours and carry on to Moat Cailin, as you and Jon decided. We must go with them. The army is half a day behind.” He paused. “Jon wants to make a stand here. He and Daenerys and the dragons are taking up the rear, covering the retreat.”

Sansa felt the blood drain from her face, felt herself sway just slightly. Bran saw, of course, but said nothing. Tyrion’s voice cut through the winds whipping around them. “You sent for me, Lady Sansa?”

Sansa let her eyes flicker shut, just briefly, then set her shoulders and turned to Tyrion. Steel. She was steel now. “It’s time. We must send everyone south. Bran says the wounded will be here in a matter of hours. I intend to stay here to wait for them. You should go ahead with Bran. You know what must be done for those who are going ahead, and I need to do more than plan and wait. I’ll travel in the back with the Maesters and healers and see if I can be of service there.”

Tyrion’s face hardened just slightly. “Very well. I shall be ready to depart within the hour. What can I do to help you, My Lady?”

Sansa pursed her lips. “I’m afraid there’s precious little that can help any of us now. We must send everyone south and hope we are not forced far enough south to depend on your sister’s charity. Come. We’ve much to do.”

* * *

 

Podrick had learned to sleep in the saddle, to strap his legs to the saddle and to list forward as they rode, although the slightest sound was enough to jerk him out of sleep and reaching for his sword. His back ached and there wasn’t enough food, and he’d lost count of how many days had passed since he had stretched his body out to sleep, truly sleep.

In his weaker moments, he allowed his mind to wander to Sansa, to the softness of her hands on his cheeks, the feel of her slender form tucked into his arms and how her head fit just beneath his chin. He jolted awake in the morning with the ghost of her voice echoing in his mind, and nodded off to sleep wondering what things might be like if he had chosen to stay with her, if she had accepted his services.

 _But she didn’t_ , he reminded himself. _She didn’t want you. Of course she didn’t. She’s Sansa Stark. And you?_

Fight, retreat. Catch a few moments of fleeting rest in the retreat, and screw up every last bit of strength he had to stand and fight when King Jon commanded it. Fight, retreat again. The weariness had sunk deep into his bones and he thought he might never move without feeling as though he were dragging again.

The only benefit was that he was growing too tired to think clearly, too drained to fight with himself over his choices, over his foolish heart. Eventually, he stopped reminding himself of who she was, what she had said. The image of her, the thought and memory of her, was sometimes all that could spur him to draw his sword once more. Keep them away from her.

 _You may not survive, but she still could_. Stop them here. Make an end. Kill one more.

One more. One more, and one more again.

He was so tired.

And still he found it in himself to chant in his mind, _One more. One more and one more again._  

Always one more and one more again.

* * *

Winterfell had burned.

Sansa had felt one tear escape for her home before she’d dammed them up, refused to allow herself time to grieve. She’d remained with the healers, keeping only a bedroll and sending everything else ahead to Moat Cailin. She thought by now, though, Moat Cailin must be empty, everyone would have fallen back to Greywater Watch, or perhaps even Riverrun.

There were too many wounded – and not enough. Every day they fought the dead, then fell back. Fight. Retreat. Fight. Retreat. Every retreat left behind a mountain of bodies too far gone to be helped – both dead and undead – and still the dead came, and still the wounded poured in and were sent ahead as quickly as possible. Sansa’s days were filled with blood and screams; she poured dreamwine, stitched and wrapped wounds, wiped fevered brows. Eventually, they would pack up and move farther South, snatching a few hours’ sleep here and there in the back of jolting wagons or on the ground in shifts. She’d seen Arya twice, flying past on Nymeria’s back, and Jon once, flying overhead on the green dragon, close on the heels of the Targaryen Queen’s black one. She’d seen and heard nothing of anyone else – Brienne, Podrick, the Lords of the Vale, Jaime Lannister, Tyrion.

She kept a dragonglass dagger tucked into her belt, just in case. Only one of her charges had come back, but the feel of its grasping hands fixing around her arm, a handful of her skirt had lingered in a way she knew she would never forget. Through the terror, though, she’d managed to twist out of its grasp and draw the dagger, plunging the shining, black blade into the wight’s neck. Just as Pod had taught her.

Before any kind of panic had set in, though, a silent sister and a wildling child had appeared to drag the corpse away and burn it, and the cries of those still living and dying had penetrated the fog of terror and spurred her back into motion.

There was, at least, no time to fret, no waiting to be done. That was the only kindness this war had granted her.

* * *

Then, suddenly, they were gone. In the blink of an eye the dead had fallen, some turning to dust and dissipating into the wind while the others simply fell and stayed down, doing what nature had intended them to do when they’d died.

Sansa had been kneeling over a wounded man in the back of a wagon, holding a dying man’s hand and singing softly to him as he faded. Beside her sat a young wildling girl, Arya’s age, perhaps, twirling a dragonglass dagger between her fingers. They both knew, once he was gone, that they would have to move quickly to drag him to the nearest fire and hoist the body onto the pile to ensure that he would not rise again.

As his breathing rattled to a stop, however, the wildling girl did not move, and Sansa looked up from her spot in the wagon to see that the world around her had fallen into a stunned silence.

The dead had fallen, the enemy appeared vanquished. But not one soul uttered a cry of joy or fell to their knees in exhaustion. They’d seen enough to know they must set to work, in case this seeming good turn was indeed too good to be true. Every person not occupied with the task of healing or too injured or weak to move began dragging bodies, starting new piles and hoisting the dead onto them. Others went from one pile to the next with torches, setting each one alight and moving on. It was grim work, but when several hours passed without so much as a twitch from the fallen, some septa had taken Sansa by the arm and ordered her to rest.

Sansa had obeyed, stretching out on her bedroll beside the wildling girl and sleeping only lightly and fitfully until the first fingers of dawn poked over the horizon. She had stirred then, but when she woke without a frightened face hovering over her, ordering her to move, telling her they were to retreat again, she knew somehow that the worst was over.

After a full day passed without any freshly risen dead, the wildling girl wandered off, busied herself stacking bodies and helping to bring in the wounded and still living, while Sansa had spoken with a Maester to begin to arrange the transport of those who were well enough to be moved back North to Moat Cailin. He’d motioned to the squire who had ridden back to bring the message. It was over, the Night King vanquished and his armies with him. What remained of the Northern and Targaryen armies would gather at the Trident to turn south now and deal with Cersei Lannister.

“No,” Sansa had shaken her head. “The armies of the North will turn home. We’ve much to do if we’re to survive the winter. There are homes to be rebuilt and we must know what food we have left.”

The maester had simply shaken his head and shrugged. “If King Jon bent the knee to the Targaryen queen, then the Northern forces are pledged to the service of her war, just as she pledged to fight ours.”

Sansa had unleashed a furious glare on him for that, but had not been able to summon a reasonable rebuttal. Instead, she said, “Whatever comes next, there must be a moment’s rest or there will be no one left to fight Daenerys’ war. I need a horse and a guard; I’ll ride for the Trident on the morrow.”


	10. Chapter 10

Sansa had ridden fast and light and arrived at the Trident to see Arya bounding up to her with a massive wolf at her side. _Nymeria._ The name fell from Sansa’s lips without any conscious thought, causing Arya to nod and grin. The Baratheon bastard, as ever, hung back a short distance, watching Arya and seeming to see little else. Arya had told Sansa of her travels from King’s Landing to Braavos and back, and of a bullheaded boy named Gendry, stubborn and stupid and tall and spoken of in a tone so heavy with frustration it might well have indicated either total disdain or utter devotion. Seeing them now, together still after everything, Sansa thought with a small smile that it must be the latter.

A flash of white caught her eye, and Sansa turned to see Ghost standing beside his sister. “Ghost!” She knelt to the ground, and the direwolf trotted over to her, allowing her to scrub affectionately at his ears and press a kiss to his forehead.

Sansa looked up and around. “Is Jon here, then? Is he alright? I haven’t seen – “ Arya’s face fell, and Sansa felt her heart drop into her stomach and settle there, leaden and dull. “He hasn’t returned?”

Arya’s teeth darted out to chew on her lower lip. “He didn’t return. Daenerys said he – “ her voice faltered, and she looked away, screwed her eyes shut. Sansa felt the tears start to leak from her own eyes, and she reached out toward Arya, who opened her arms to embrace her. They fell into each other’s arms, clinging to each other and allowing themselves to be girls again for just a moment, letting their tears fall freely and burying their faces in each other’s shoulders, not caring who saw them or what they thought.

Arya composed herself first, though she stayed there, holding her sister, until Sansa straightened of her own accord, brushing her tears away and allowing herself one last sniffle before she sighed, her eyes fluttering shut for the length of the sigh, then opening again, determined if still clouded with sorrow. “I can’t… not now. I saw a raven that said the Queen means to march south immediately? With our army?”

“Jon bent the knee,” Arya frowned. “I don’t think it’s our army anymore. In any case, she’s said she’d like to meet with you when you arrive.”

“Good. Can you take me to her?”

“This way,” Arya nodded, and Gendry and Nymeria moved to follow her before Sansa could. Ghost waited for Sansa, padded along silently beside her as she turned in the direction Arya was headed. They walked in silence, Sansa dragging together the frayed ends of her nerves and pulling her shoulders up, breathing deeply and donning the mask of the Lady of Winterfell, though all she wanted to do was lie down in the dark and cry and sleep for days. There would be time for that, and if her meeting with the Dragon Queen went well, it would come sooner rather than later.

They stopped outside a tent and Arya motioned to it. “She’s in there, with her council.”

Sansa reached out and squeezed her sister’s hand. “Will you come in with me?”

“Of course,” Arya’s brows furrowed, as though it had been a stupid question. “We’re a pack. We’ll stay together.”

Sansa smiled back, releasing her sister’s hand and turning toward the tent. She paused to steel herself, threading her fingers through the fur on Ghost’s back. Ghost felt her touch and let out a low growl, though to Sansa’s ears it wasn’t menacing so much as it was bolstering her spirit. She glanced at Arya, who nodded, and they stepped through the flap together, with the Direwolves between them.

Every head in the tent turned to look at them, the Stark women, filthy and exhausted and made entirely of steel, their eyes cold and determined. Sansa had known, in her head, that Jon wouldn’t be there, but looking around the room and finding it empty of his presence had nearly knocked all the wind out of her chest, made her want to turn and go. She couldn’t, though. She wouldn’t. “Your Grace,” Sansa inclined her head just slightly.

“Lady Stark,” Tyrion spoke first. “I’m glad to see you safe and whole. We were afraid you wouldn’t arrive before we had to march south.”

“Had to?” Sansa cocked an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry about Jon,” Daenerys spoke up, her voice cool but her eyes almost forlorn. Sansa held her gaze for a long moment, allowing their grief to connect them, just for that brief second. “He saved us all. He died a hero.”

“As he lived,” Sansa agreed. “Fighting for his people.”

“Your face tells me you’re about to take up that mantle,” Tyrion observed, clasping his hands behind his back and setting his feet apart, almost as though he were bracing for something.

“Someone has to. Your raven said that the Northern armies will be marching south with your own. I’ve come to ask you to reconsider that plan.”

“I will not,” Daenerys inclined her head. “Though I imagine no one’s going to be able to stop you from trying to change my mind. I will remind you, before you begin, that your brother bent the knee to me. That he promised the North’s support against Cersei Lannister in exchange for my support against the Armies of the Dead. Which I gave.”

“And that was very generous of you, to defend the people you intend to rule against imminent danger,” Sansa bit back. “But I would also remind you that the Wildlings were not sworn to Jon, and they were only allied with the North to fight against the Army of the Dead, and the Knights of the Vale are not Northerners, even if they are loyal to House Stark. If you wish to have their support, you must treat with them yourself.”

“I am their queen. Why would I treat with my own subjects?” Daenerys’s voice grew tighter with every word.

Sansa met her gaze evenly. “Because they did not bow to you. They allied with House Stark to reclaim Winterfell from the Boltons and fight the dead. Both of those things are now accomplished. If you wish to earn their loyalty, then I suggest you do so. But Lord Royce is now the Lord Protector of the Vale, and he mistrusts both Targaryens and Lannisters. He trusts me, the Knights of the Vale rode North at my request. I can speak with him, perhaps even secure the Vale for you. But I see no reason to do that if everything he believes about Targaryens proves to be true. I cannot ask him to serve a queen who cares only for conquest, and not the needs of her people.”

“And what might those needs be?” Daenerys’ mouth was set in a tight smile, the cool shade of her eyes, wide and unseeing and looking through Sansa rather than at her, was not enough to hide the fact that the Queen was seething.

“Food. Shelter. Winterfell is burned, and winter is still here, even if the dead no longer come with it. The men want to know that their families are safe and that they have food to last. Winterfell and the glass gardens must be rebuilt if any of us are to survive. The Reach has little to trade for, and we have to see if any of our winter crops have survived, or if more can be planted.”

“And you Northern women can’t do that?”

“We can’t rebuild the castle or the glass gardens. Not by ourselves. We need men to do the heavy lifting. But besides all that, the men are exhausted, your grace. I find it hard to believe that you see any wisdom in marching south now. The troops will need time to recover if they’re to be of any use to you at all.”

Tyrion stepped forward; Ghost let out a low growl, and Tyrion stepped back again, but spoke anyway. “As do we all. You’ve given us much to think about, Lady Sansa, but I see the sun is setting and I believe you are right. Let’s all get some rest tonight and reconvene in the morning. Perhaps we’ll have cooler heads and clearer thoughts.”

A long moment had passed before Daenerys had jerked her chin once in agreement. “Thank you, Tyrion. I think you’re right.”

The pause had been enough to sap whatever fight Sansa had left in her for the moment. She’d nodded her acquiescence; she could use a rest, a true rest, to lie down in a bed and really truly sleep for a night, if that was even possible. She bowed her head and turned to leave with Arya, Ghost, and Nymeria.

Gendry appeared as they stepped out of the tent. “We’ve set up a tent for you, m’lady. Near Arya’s.”

“That’s perfect, thank you very much, Gendry.” Sansa smiled wearily at him and followed her sister through the camp, content to simply trail behind silently, watching as Arya and Gendry talked quietly between themselves as they walked. They reached another tent and motioned to it, and Sansa nodded gratefully and watched as they retreated into a nearby one, leaving her alone with Ghost in front of her own tent.

As she turned to duck inside, she looked up to see a figure a dozen paces away, slumped and favoring one leg and covered in filth and staring at her with shattered, dark eyes that _knew_ her.

Sansa had taken one look at the man and thrown herself at him, pulling him tightly to her and holding on to him as if for her life, or perhaps his. “Podrick. Oh gods, you’re alright. Thank the gods.” She’d pulled back then, to examine him, placed her cool hands on his cheeks, pale beneath the grime and felt the scorching heat radiating from his flesh. “Pod, you are alright, aren’t you?”

He’d nodded. “Of course, my lady.”

And then he had collapsed.

Sansa felt every last bit of air sucked from her body as she fell to the ground beside him, something very like sheer panic threatening to overtake her as she cried out for help, her eyes casting over him desperately to see what was wrong.

Finally she found it, the dark, damp spot on his side that stained her fingers red with his blood as she pulled her hand away. She gasped in a haggard breath and called for help again, then tamped down the rising fear in her chest and forced herself into action, pressing her hand back against his side and applying as much pressure as she could from her position. She looked down at the man lying on the ground beside her and used one hand to brush his sweat-matted hair off his forehead. “Help is coming, Pod. Stay with me. You promised to come back. You promised, and you did it. You’ve got to stay with me.” She returned her second hand to his side and pressed down all the harder, praying to whatever gods were listening for the bleeding to stop.

She leaned over him, willing the tears in her eyes not to fall, and murmured, “I told you, Pod. I rely on you. You’ve got to get better. You’ve got to be alright.”

Gendry and Arya had appeared at her side, Gendry wrapping his arms around her and pulling her out of the way as Arya directed two nearby soldiers to carry Pod into the infirmary. Sansa had struggled free of Gendry’s grasp and trailed along after them, numb, still clinging to Pod’s hand as he was lowered to the table and the healers set to work, entirely unaware of the loaded look that passed between Gendry and Arya as she brushed off their guiding hands and their suggestions that she go rest and check on Pod in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to all of you amazing angels for reading - all of your kudos and comments are treasured, each and every one! And y'all. The new season is SO FKN CLOSE I CAN'T STAND IT. WHAT A TIME TO BE ALIVE.


	11. Chapter 11

It hadn’t just been Podrick’s side, the Maester had later informed Sansa. He pointed to Pod’s left foot, which was purple and black and swollen to twice its normal size; it was a wonder the boy had managed to make it even to the place where he had met Sansa, he told her. They had closed the wound in his side back up, but it had been infected and his body would need time to heal. The best thing to do was to give him dreamwine and let him sleep as much as possible.

Sansa had sat beside him for two days, handling what she could from his bedside before Tyrion Lannister had arrived and pulled her away to make plans for what must be done next as what remained of the armies of the living had trickled in and crumpled, the soldiers in desperate need of food and sleep and washing.

In their next planning session, Sansa had argued with Daenerys again, shaken off Tyrion’s exhausted admonitions and demanded that the armies of the North be released to return to their families. Sansa’s resolve had not weakened as she fought for her people in the ways that she knew how. She insisted again and again that they had agreed to fight under Jon to defeat the enemy from the North, and they had fulfilled that promise. The Northern Lords and the Knights of the Vale had not sworn to fight two wars, and the vanquishing of the Others had not meant the ceasing of winter altogether. There was work to be done to ensure that the people survived the icy winds and heavy snows that had already begun to settle in around them.

And again, the Queen had appraised her coolly and asked, with a self-satisfied smile, whether Sansa meant to lead a rebellion against the queen her brother had chosen. The Northern Lords had sworn fealty to Jon, and Jon had bent the knee to Daenerys, she explained, and for Sansa to dispute his decisions in such a way was akin to treason. Arya had stepped forward then, asked, with a hand on the dagger at her hip, what Daenerys thought she intended to do about it, causing Ghost and Nymeria to leap to their feet, hackles raised. Tyrion had spoken up then, reminded Daenerys that Sansa had every right to voice her dissent and Arya that she ought not threaten the Dragon Queen. Sansa suggested that perhaps Arya and Nymeria, at least, ought to take a walk, a suggestion received with a grateful look from Tyrion.

None of it mattered; Sansa had determined that she must return to Winterfell. They could rebuild from there. Moat Cailin would, of course, remain open to those who were not well enough to travel and as stocked for their needs as was possible, but Sansa had decided that she would pack up the Northern wounded and whatever portion of the Northern forces Daenerys would grant her and ride for Winterfell as soon as the travel could be arranged. She needed to be home, to begin to rebuild whatever charred remains still stood. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Putting this plan into effect had taken several days and a good many disputes with the Targaryen Queen.

Tyrion, at least, had never disputed her assertion, and after a number of tense discussions with Sansa and gods knew how many private conversations with Tyrion, Daenerys had granted, with a tilted head, a tight approximation of a smile, and cool, walled-off eyes that did little to disguise her inner fury, that Sansa might take the wounded Northerners, enough men to transport them, and an additional hundred Northern soldiers for protection. In return, Sansa would be present as Daenerys treated with the Knights of the Vale and do what she could to convince them to fight with the queen.

To all this Sansa agreed, and within three days, as the rest of the Northern and Targaryen forces began their move south, two dozen wagons and a few haggard units split off and began to move north along the Kingsroad.

Sansa rode somewhere in the middle of the train, with Brienne at her side once again. Brienne had appeared at the Trident drawn and exhausted, her expression that of an injured animal – furious and guarded and still insufficient to hide the fullness and rawness of the pain she felt. She had returned alone, with an injured arm and the Kingslayer’s cloak wrapped around her shoulders. Jaime Lannister had not returned with her, and Sansa had not known whether she should comfort Brienne or Tyrion first.

Brienne had flatly refused to move south, taking up her post at Sansa’s side once again and glaring murderously at anyone who suggested she should do otherwise. She spoke even less than she had before, and while Sansa had little trouble granting that a broken heart could easily do this to a person, even one as strong as Brienne, she still found Brienne’s presence unnerving.

Pod had agreed with her, as they bumped and jolted along the Kingsroad in the back of a covered wagon. She split her time between riding alongside Brienne and tying her horse to a wagon and riding with Bran – whom they’d picked up at Moat Cailin – and Pod, murmuring with him in lowered voices about all that had passed and what would come next. Weak as he was, he’d held her as she wept for Jon, wrapped one arm around her shoulders and used the other to stroke her hair, his eyes flickering shut as she buried her face in his neck and clutched at the fabric of his shirt with trembling hands.  He was becoming accustomed to pain, but the ache in his chest as she nestled into his arms was familiar yet still new, and demanded to be reckoned with in different ways then the rest of his hurts.

The next day when she’d come to ride with him, she’d asked how him to tell her how he’d come to be at the Trident. Pod had stayed with Brienne and Jaime on the trek North from Winterfell, but once the fighting had started he had found himself separated from them after the first retreat. He’d fallen in with various groups, some Wildlings, some Northerners, even fighting alongside Arya and Gendry at one stage. He’d fought, killed dozens of the dead, if not hundreds, and still more had come, and still more had risen. He’d been flat on his back, nearly out of strength and trying to scrabble away from half a dozen of the things when suddenly they’d all gone limp, tumbled off of him and to the side and never risen again.

“I thought I was finished,” he’d confided in a low voice, wincing just slightly as the wagon passed over a particularly large rut in the road. “I couldn’t throw them off, I was pinned. My foot was caught, I think one of them had a hold of it. One of the dead, I mean. There were so many and I knew that even if I somehow got free of them, there’d be more when I got up again and I – ” here, he paused, looked away, couldn’t quite bring himself to continue.

Sansa’s hand tightened around his; she couldn’t remember taking hold of it but she was grateful for the feel of him, the warmth of his skin beneath hers. He was silent for a long while, staring at the canvas stretched over the wagon as it flapped lightly with the wind and the movement. Without turning his gaze back to her, he intoned, “I just wanted to sleep. I thought maybe if I stopped fighting, I could – ” he broke off again, and Sansa felt her eyes pricking with tears. After another pause, he said simply, “Then they all went still. And it was over.

“I thought, maybe, that I had given up without meaning to, that I was dead. Just for a second. And then I felt my side start to throb and thought that if I was dead things wouldn’t hurt quite so bad. So I got up and looked around and everything was so still. I did what I could to stop the bleeding. I’m still not sure. What happened to it, I mean. But they took a good chunk out of me.”

Some cross between a laugh and a sob burst out of Sansa’s chest and escaped through her mouth, and she used her free hand to swipe at the tears on her cheeks. “They did. But you made it. You came back.”

“To you,” he nodded. “Like I said I would. Like I promised. I walked. A long way. I don’t know how long. I stopped to sleep, some. Maybe that was a mistake, I was more tired when I woke up then I had been before. The bleeding in my side stopped, mostly, but my ankle hurt. I kept walking, until I fell. Maybe that’s what opened up my side again. Falling. I fell and got up and fell again. And then I got up and went a little further, and then I saw you. And I knew I had made it.”

Tears were streaming down Sansa’s face now, but she made no effort to stop them and instead impulsively leaned forward to press her lips to his temple. Pod raised a weary hand to drop it onto the back of Sansa’s head, keeping her in place, and she relished the weight and warmth of his hand and the faint pulse just beneath her lips and the sound of his breathing in her ear and all the little things that meant that Pod was alive and would continue to be alive for the foreseeable future. “You’ve been so brave, Pod. So brave and so strong. Like the songs.” It was a stupid thing to say; she flushed and wondered where such a childish thought had come from and what had possessed her to say it aloud. Regardless, she needed him to know, to know what it meant, to hear him tell his story.

He’d laughed once, winced, shaken his head. “I wasn’t brave. You asked me to come back, and I almost didn’t.”

“My lady,” Brienne had poked her head into the open back of the wagon. “We’re approaching Winterfell.”

Sansa had raised her head and thanked Brienne, then given Pod’s hand a squeeze as she released it. “You did, though. Come back. That’s what matters.” She had slipped out of the wagon and mounted up beside Brienne again, breathing deeply for the first time in weeks as Winterfell came into view. She urged her horse into a gallop, determined to be the first through the gates, and the sleep she slept inside the ruined walls of her home that night was the most peaceful she’d had since the night the Dragon Queen had arrived and Pod had slept beside the fire in her room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get this chapter up before next week's episode airs and completely destroys my entire soul. I'm desperately afraid that Pod's glow-up in episode 2 is a means of reminding viewers who he is and that we like him before they have a horde of wights rip him to pieces or whatever. So. Here's to getting a little more of my rendition out into the world because IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO POD THIS WILL BE MY ONLY SOURCE OF JOY LEFT IN THE WORLD. 
> 
> Aside from that, as always, thank you all for reading. Your kudos and comments are everything to me and I love you all.


	12. Chapter 12

The Great Hall had been repurposed into an infirmary – there were too many wounded to place them elsewhere and no feasts to be had, for their provisions were mightily limited.  Sansa’s days were filled, assessing what must be addressed immediately and what supplies there were for rebuilding, and replanting, overseeing the cooks as they rationed and planned their meals, and spending any spare time with the wounded, making the rounds and helping where she could. Ghost, untethered from his master, spent all day out, running around the grounds of Winterfell, and returned most evenings to sleep beside Sansa’s bed.

Brienne spent her time supervising the reconstruction of the castle, stalking the burned halls of Winterfell alone, restless and furious. With Pod injured and the Kingslayer gone, she was alone in a way Sansa had never seen, and Sansa thought to herself more than once that she seemed ready to strike, to lash out at the first hint of provocation. She never felt at ease in Brienne’s presence anymore.

A raven came, not long after they arrived home, that said that Daenerys’ army had met with little resistance when they rode into King’s Landing. Cersei, the scroll said, had been found dead in her chambers, strangled, with another body nearby, crushed beyond recognition by Cersei’s monstrous guard but wearing Lannister armor and missing its right hand.

It was then that realization had dawned on Sansa. She had assumed that Jaime had died fighting the Others, but one look at Brienne’s haunted eyes as she turned away told Sansa enough. She had confided her suspicions to Pod that evening as they sat together, Pod propped up in his bed as he could now manage to be for a few hours a day, and he had nodded sadly. “The way he talked, before I was separated from them… He never intended to come back. Alive, I mean. When the Others fell, he must have ridden south as fast as his horse could carry him. He said once that he knew he his end, and it wasn’t at the hands of the dead. I think, maybe, I know what he meant now. I think it was Cersei.”

A short number of weeks later, Brienne had approached Sansa in the Lord’s chambers and begged a word with her and Bran. Informed her, in a defiant tone, that she was with child. “Jaime and I swore no vows. We had no need of them.”

“I see,” Sansa nodded. “He never did seem overly fond of vows. I had thought he might – but no matter.” She thought for a moment, then looked at Brienne. “Does anyone else know? Of the child, of its… circumstances?”

Before Brienne could speak, Bran shook his head. “Only us. And Podrick.”

Sansa smiled at that. “Of course.”

She exchanged glances with Bran, who nodded.  “Go ahead. Tyrion will be quite agreeable, I think.”

Sansa took a deep breath and turned back to Brienne. “Brienne, I swore that you would always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table, and my word is my bond. We would be honored to have you remain on at Winterfell and raise your child here. But I think perhaps you may have other options.” She paused for a long moment, then suggested, making her tone as gentle as she could manage, “You do know, of course, that if you had married, your child would be heir to Casterly Rock, behind Tyrion?”

Brienne had nodded, but quickly retorted, “But we didn’t.”

“But no one need ever find out,” Sansa ventured. “I think it would be a small falsehood, and perhaps not even entirely untrue, if we announced that you were Jaime’s wife for a brief time before his death. I could write to Tyrion and ask him to make you a place at his family home, if you would like. I think he would be pleased to know that Jaime had one child who could be raised up well, and as a Lannister. He could name the child his heir. And you would have a home and a place to give birth, away from prying eyes; no one will have any interest in the goings-on of the fallen Lannister house under the leadership of the Imp.”

Brienne stared at the Lady of Winterfell, searching for words. “My Lady, I – you are too kind. I – “

“I will write to Tyrion to tell him of your marriage and the child. Think on it, in the meantime,” Sansa urged her, reaching out to clasp Brienne’s hands between hers. “You can go anywhere, or stay here. But I believe I can promise that you and your child will have a home and a name no matter what you decide.”

Brienne nodded once, eyes bright, and turned to go.

Sansa wrote the missive and dispatched the raven immediately, praying that Bran was right, and then made her way to the infirmary to see Podrick’s bed unoccupied and the man himself limping around the outskirts of the room, leaning heavily on Maester Wolkan. His every movement was slow, deliberate, and clearly painful, but he was up, and Sansa felt her heart flutter and her lips pulling upward as he looked up and saw her. 

She’d taken over Maester Wolkan’s post, ignoring Pod’s protestations and offering her own shoulder to support him as they made their arduous trek around the room. “Brienne said she’d told you, about the babe?” Sansa asked in a low voice.

“Aye. She told me a few days ago. I told her she should speak with you.”

“She did, today” Sansa nodded. “I told her she could stay here, if she’d like. But I’ve also written to Tyrion to ask him to let her come to Casterly Rock with the babe. I told him that she and Jaime were married. I don’t think it’s much of a falsehood, and I believe they might have married, had he – if he had – “ she faltered, unsure of what to say, and they came to a stop, bogged down for a moment with the weight of all that had passed. She had known Jaime Lannister but little, and while she had even admired him somewhat, she didn’t feel as though she could speak of his decisions or his death, that they were for her to discuss.

Pod had just nodded though. “Yes. I think so. That was kind, Lady Sansa. I think Brienne will be grateful.”

He smiled then, soft and warm and approving, and any doubt Sansa had about what she’d done dissipated as her doubts always did after a discussion with Pod. She granted him a smile in return, and they both turned to finish their lap of the room. “Would you like to get back into bed, or do another lap?”

“If he does another lap,” Maester Wolkan called from a nearby bedside, “He may be ready to leave here entirely and take up chambers of his own.”

“They’re ready and waiting for him when he is,” Sansa had replied to the maester.

Pod stiffened and looked down at her, befuddled. “They are?”

“I promised you a place, Pod,” Sansa had looked up, caught his eye, suddenly nervous. “I meant it.”

His eyebrows had knitted together as he stared at her, but after a long moment he nodded jerkily. “Thank you, Sansa. I think I could do another lap now, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Her smile widened, and she inclined her head graciously. “Of course. I’d be happy to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want y'all to know that I've had this chapter written for MONTHS now, and the fact that my Jaime prediction may come even a little bit true is a bummer of the highest order. Having said that, thank you all sooo much for reading, and for leaving feedback - you are the wind beneath my wings, every one of you!


	13. Chapter 13

There were so few left to return to Winterfell, now the wars had been fought and won.

Sansa had refused to leave the North, even for the Queen’s coronation. “Let her rule from her Southron throne,” Sansa had replied, when Maester Wolkan asked whether he ought to arrange transport for her. “She doesn’t need me to do it. My place is here.”

Ravens came, as the castle began to regain its old shape and the injured found their way out of their cots and onto their feet again. Arya reappeared, with Gendry and without Nymeria, just as she had the first time, sneaking past the guards and appearing wordlessly in Sansa’s solar.

“You didn’t have to sneak in,” Sansa smiled fondly at her little sister when she entered her solar and found her examining the papers at her desk. “The guards know you. They’d have sent you right to me.”

“I know I didn’t have to,” Arya had grinned back. “I just did it anyways.”

Sansa had wrapped her arms around Arya then. “I’m glad you’re back. You didn’t want to stay for the coronation?”

Arya made a face. “I’ve no interest in who sits the throne. I came North as soon as I saw Cersei’s body. She was the last name on my list.”

“Your list. Of course. I’m glad you’ve finished it,” Sansa smiled, sinking into a chair near the fireplace.

Arya grinned back, wild and wolfish. “Me, too. Where’s Ghost got off to?”

“He runs around the grounds during the day. Most nights he comes back and sleeps in my chambers, though sometimes he stays out hunting. Nymeria?”

Arya shrugged, though Sansa could see a flicker in her sister’s eyes as she replied, “She left us in the Riverlands. She and her pack. It’s more her home now than this is. And she’s wild. She was meant to be wild.”

Sansa nodded. “She’s more like you than we ever imagined, I think.”

Arya smirked, pleased with the comparison. “We brought glass. Daenerys sent it. For the gardens.”

“Thank the gods,” Sansa had sighed. “I was afraid Daenerys was still angry with me. I was afraid she wouldn’t want to help.”

“Oh, I’m not sure she’s entirely fond of you. But Tyrion and I reminded her that Jon would have wanted – “ Arya’s smile faded at the mention of his name. They sat silently for a moment, until Arya said. “It doesn’t feel right, here, without him.”

Sansa pursed her lips. “I know. I keep wanting to ask him things, to see what he thinks about what we should do. He did so much. He could have helped figure out what we’re to do about food. But then I remember he wouldn’t be here even if he had – even if he was alive. He’d have been in King’s Landing, with her. He’d have been the King.”

Arya had shaken her head. “He’d have hated it.”

“He would have been miserable, wouldn’t he?” Sansa fretted, raising one hand to rub delicately at her temple. “He belonged here. I’ve a mason working on his statue. I hate going to see his progress, having to see his face so still and cold.”

“D’you think – “ Arya frowned, chewed on her lip. “He wouldn’t have been happy there. But he couldn’t come home, could he?”

Sansa sighed, the ache in her chest thudding a little. “I don’t think he ever intended to live through it. He told me, after he came back nothing really felt right. But he said he must have been brought back for a reason. I think maybe he figured that was it. Saving the realm from the Others. So he did it. But I don’t think he planned on anything past it. On whether he would go south or come home. He never thought he should have lived even as long as he did.”

“He was ready, when it did happen.” Arya’s hand, small and warm, had found its way into Sansa’s. “I saw his face, before he got on the dragon that last time. I think you’re right. He knew.”

Sansa squeezed Arya’s hand. “He knew. I still wish he’d been wrong, though.” She brushed a rogue tear away. “I wish he’d stayed to make sure everything would be alright after.”

“Me too. But I think he knew you’d be here to do that. He trusted you. As we all do.”

Sansa let out a broken laugh and dropped her head to rest on their clasped hands. “I hope I deserve it. I’m afraid I – I’ll muck everything up. I’m afraid I already have.”

“Don’t be silly,” Arya shook her head. “I’ll tell you if you are.” She tugged her hand free and motioned to a scrap of parchment on the table. “She wants you to marry? Daenerys?”

Sansa heaved a sigh. “She’s insistent. And the trouble is, she’s right. Bran keeps insisting he’s not Brandon Stark anymore, which makes me the Lady of Winterfell. But once the three of us are all gone, then there must be an heir to inherit it. Bran can’t have a child, and I don’t think he would if he could. So unless you’ve an inclination to marry and birth a son or two, the producing of said heir falls to me.”

Arya frowned. “So then, who will you marry?”

Sansa shook her head. “That’s the trouble, isn’t it? Who’s left, who’s of noble blood and doesn’t have their own keep to rebuild or maintain? Not to mention of age and who wouldn’t… who would be… kind.”

Arya’s hand snaked out to rest on Sansa’s shoulder, small and comforting. Grounding. “And Daenerys hasn’t suggested anyone?”

“She’s made suggestions,” Sansa shrugged. “Tyrion. I told her Tyrion doesn’t like it here, in the cold, and I can’t very well run Winterfell from Casterly Rock, or worse, King’s Landing.” The idea itself did not repulse her as it once had, when she was younger, but it brought her no pleasure, either. The thought brought no peace to her mind or heart, and so she rejected it. Daenerys’s other suggestion…

Sansa glanced up at her sister, flicking an eyebrow upward. “She also mentioned Gendry.”

Arya’s eyes flickered, but her face remained stolid. “He wouldn’t.”

“Nor would I,” Sansa placed her free hand over Arya’s, gently reassuring, though she couldn’t help her lips quirking upward in amusement. “I’ve no interest in your blacksmith, Arya. And he’s never once even looked at me. Although I’m not sure what to tell Daenerys about why Gendry isn’t suitable, when you two won’t consent to being officially betrothed. She’ll not be pleased that I’ve rejected another of her ideas.”

Silence fell for a moment, then Arya cleared her throat. “I’m hungry. Have you got anything to eat?”

“Not here,” Sansa sniggered, ignoring Arya’s pointed glare. “But why don’t you and Gendry go to the kitchens. They’ll find something for you to eat.”

Arya nodded, extricated her hand from between Sansa’s. “Thanks.”

She began making her way to the door, but stopped when Sansa said her name. “Arya. I’m glad you’re back. And I’m glad you’ve got Gendry, too. I hope you stay, at least for a while.”

Arya turned back, a glint in her eye. “Of course we’ll stay. At least until we see you married off. You’ll think of something. You always do.”


	14. Chapter 14

They only trained once every few days now, and it was more for Pod’s sake than for Sansa’s. His strength was returning, but he tired easily and Sansa refused to wear him out, now that the threat was diminished.

They did walk, though. He walked the halls of Winterfell, rebuilding the strength in his ankle and testing its limits at her side as she gave orders, taking the place Jon Snow had once filled before he went South. They walked up and down the rows of the glass gardens, inspecting the crops and new seedlings as they pushed out of the ground and sprouted new leaves. Sometimes they would stop to do some work, and Pod had started the first time he’d seen Sansa drop to her knees in the dirt to pluck away a sickly-looking leaf from a rosebush. She’d smiled when she’d glanced up to see the look on his face, and assured him that her skirts had been through worse than a little soil.

Pod sang under his breath, sometimes, while he worked. “Jenny of Oldstones” and “Florian and Jonquil” and “The Maiden of the Tree.” He only ever did it in the gardens, when he thought no one could hear. Sometimes Sansa would purposefully linger over a plant or a rosebush, rather than moving on out of earshot from him, until he finished a verse or got distracted and the tune trailed off. It was always a gamble, hearing him sing. Sometimes it was simply sweet and soothing, while other times it produced a deep sadness in her, made her ache. Sometimes it brought out a sharp throbbing in her chest and she had to turn away or move on before the tears could begin to prick her eyes and she had to explain to Pod why she was crying. She treasured those moments, with her hands in the soil and Pod’s rich baritone drifting through the air behind her. They almost made her feel young again, innocent and untouched by the cruelties of the world.

He walked with her to the godswood when she wanted to pray, and sometimes Pod even found himself whispering a prayer of his own to the Old Gods beneath his breath. Prayers for healing. For spring. For safety. He never felt completely at ease in this place, not quite accepted, but sometimes a slight breeze ruffled his hair and carried the softest of whispers to his ear, and he thought that maybe these gods might be listening to him like the Seven never seemed to.

Sometimes they walked silently, Sansa working out figures or mulling over a problem in her mind. Sometimes she consulted with Pod, asked him about what this or that Lord might want or expect, how many men might be sufficient to send here or there, what Lord Tyrion might have done about a certain owed sum or some other unruly individual. Pod always tried to come up with something, to have some sort of answer, to help her however he was able. He’d been privy to much of Tyrion’s business, and he’d paid attention. He’d always had a good memory, whenever anyone bothered to try and teach him anything. But often he found himself at a loss, offering up what he could and apologizing for not having more. He wasn’t raised to be a lord, he explained. He’d barely been trained to be a squire. He wished he knew more, could help her better.

He had made her laugh, though, a precious handful of times, and once she’d caught him looking as she did. Her breath had hitched, then, and Pod had felt the panicked heat rising in his cheeks because he could swear in that moment that she _knew_. The heat kept growing, and he stammered out an apology, said he was sorry he only had jests and no real help. She had smiled and reassured him he had nothing to apologize for, just as she always did.

Sansa always smiled, thanked him, told him he was enough help just as he was. That time, she’d put her hand on his arm when she’d said it, and when she’d let go his skin had stayed warm where she’d touched him for the rest of the day. She didn’t do it often, and part of Pod wished she would, but the better, smarter part of him was grateful she didn’t. She was like a fire, Sansa. Her nearness brought warmth, and light, but Pod knew that if he allowed himself to get too comfortable, too close, to draw too near for too long, she would consume him whole, turn him to ash. And Pod was no Targaryen. He knew he wouldn’t come back from that.

* * *

Sometimes Sansa thought he might not mind, if she asked him. Sometimes she could almost convince herself that he might even be pleased, that it wouldn’t be too big of a thing to ask. Too much.

The idea had come to her in the godswood a week ago.

They’d been sitting together, side by side, beneath the heart tree, a quiet moment before the evening meal. She had, for a moment, remembered her wedding to Ramsay, standing at his side beneath this very tree in her ivory gown, and a shudder had wracked her spine. Pod had glanced over to make sure she was alright, and even as the shudder passed, the image changed, and it had been Pod’s eyes looking at her, Pod’s hands taking hers in his own, Pod draping a cloak over her shoulders and claiming her in the eyes of the gods and of men.

It made sense, as well. He fit each part of what she needed. He had a family name and a knighthood. He was her age, someone she knew and trusted. He seemed content here, in Winterfell, not miserable though he wasn’t born a Northerner, and she knew he would never force her to give up her place, name, or home. And the idea of being his wife not only failed to raise any sense of fear or discomfort in her, but actually sparked something low in her stomach that made her think she might even be able to find some joy in such a union.

When she’d suggested the idea to Arya as they stood together on the battlements, her sister had snorted and rolled her eyes. “Seven hells. Don’t tell me you hadn’t thought of it before now? He’s so obvious; I’d assumed the poor man had something desperately wrong with him and that’s why you’d decided against him. But no? You’re just too thick to see the clear best choice?”

Sansa had flung snow at Arya then, partly for revenge and partly to stop her heart from actually beating its way out of her chest.

A week, she’d known he was the answer to her conundrum.

A full week, and she’d not been able to bring it up to him. She’d not even been able to decide that she would do it. That she even could.

She’d been betrothed thrice and married twice and still, when she thought of Pod in such terms, it seemed too much, too big, too weighty. It made her heart constrict in her chest and her breathing feel as though it might cease altogether.

They were back in the godswood now, Sansa with her back against the trunk of the weirwood, her knees pulled up to her chest, and Pod a few feet away, leaning against one of the low branches. He was studying her, brows pulled down, trying to figure out why she seemed so off-balance, so quiet.

She knew it was coming; he could always sense when something wasn’t right with her. “Is everything alright, My Lady?” It struck her anew every time he did this, how attuned he was to her, how well he knew her, how much he wanted everything to be right in her world, simply because he wanted the best for her. It was utterly singular, Pod’s generosity toward her. No one had ever been so kind to her simply for the sake of it. It made asking for something of this magnitude feel almost like taking advantage of him.

She wouldn’t do it. She couldn’t.

“Sansa?” He was leaning forward now, fully aware of her confusion, though not its source.

There wasn’t any harm in telling him though, was there? She talked with him about everything else, why not this? Perhaps he would have another solution. Perhaps he would arrive at the same solution of his own accord – _No. You mustn’t think like that. Just. Talk to him, Sansa._

Just as Pod was beginning to think he’d offended Sansa and she was punishing him by refusing to speak to him anymore, she took a deep breath and said, “Daenerys is pressuring me to marry.”

His heart sank. He’d known she would have to marry some lord at some point, but he’d hoped there would be more time. That was silly, though. The North needed an heir. She was looking up at him expectantly, waiting for a response, gauging him carefully. “Ah. Who? Does she want you to marry, I mean?”

Sansa huffed out a mirthless laugh and got to her feet, pacing a couple of steps, then forcing herself to stop, to stand still. Her fists clenched and unclenched. She seemed nervous, and no wonder. Her past marriages had all been disastrous in one way or another. “Well that’s the trouble, isn’t it? There aren’t many men of the right age and bloodlines left. So many wars. I need a husband who has no claim on any lands or titles anywhere else, someone who won’t try to take me away from my home, you understand. Someone with a name, but no lands. Someone who served well in the War for the Dawn, who people know and trust. Who I trust. A husband who will allow me to remain a Stark but who has blood that the other Lords won’t look down on.”

Pod nodded. “Yes, of course. If your aim is to stay at Winterfell, you’ll need a noble husband without any claim to place ahead of yours.” There came a dull pang in his chest at the thought of Sansa taking another husband. Some other man who would walk beside her and sleep in her bed at night and give her sons.

“I think maybe I’ve found someone,” Sansa had mused, eyes fixed firmly on the ground at her feet. “Someone with a name but no land, someone who’s sweet and gentle and wouldn’t force me to take his name or try to take my power from me. Someone I trust more than anyone.” Her eyes darted up to his face, but Pod was focused intently on his own feet.

Another dull throb in his chest. “He sounds exactly right for you, My Lady. May I ask who he is?”

There was a brief pause, then, softly, she replied, “You, Podrick. It’s you.”

Pod had frozen at that, eyes wide and pulse stuttering, half of his brain sure he’d misheard her and the other half sure she was making fun of him, jesting at his expense. She couldn’t know how cruel it was, to joke with him in such a manner, how it pained him to even imagine such a future and then have it ripped away with a callous laugh and a twinkle in the eye. He gritted his teeth for a moment, then stammered, “Y – you shouldn’t joke so, My Lady. About your marriage. And about me.” He pursed his lips and waited for her to laugh and tell him who she’d really decided on to be her husband.

But the laugh never came. He risked a glance up and found her standing very close to him, eyes locked on his face, her breath coming short, but out of apprehension rather than amusement. “It’s not a joke Pod. I’m asking you to marry me.

“It makes sense,” she’d continued matter-of-factly, doing her best to hide the hitch in her breathing, the tremor in her voice. “Daenerys will rule in the South, and Bran will be here, Warden of the North in name, as father’s eldest son. I’ll continue running everything as before, as the Lady of Winterfell and Bran will continue… doing what it is he does. My oldest son will be the heir, and there will always be a Stark in Winterfell. But I need someone to give me a son.” She continued speaking, but her words began to fade in and out as Pod’s head swam. “You… perfect… lord… no threat… Bran… Westerlands…. kin… kind… trust you… never hurt me… know you… noble… brave.”

He’d shaken his head, fought to clear it. She’d stepped forward, taken his hands in hers.

“Marry me, Pod,” she’d whispered, voice soft and unsure. The world began to spin wildly around Pod and he fought to catch his breath as she pressed, “I know it’s a lot to ask, but please. Please do it. You’d be a lord. I’d be safe with you, I know I would. And I could make you happy, I think. If you’d let me.”

The world spun faster and faster around Pod’s head and he struggled for a response, for a word, any word, to let her know he couldn’t, she had to choose someone else, someone better than he –

He jerked his gaze up to hers, he’d tell her, tell her there was a better husband for her, Lord Tyrion or one of the Northern Lords, but as soon as Pod’s eyes caught Sansa’s he froze, held in thrall by the soft blue, the famed Tully blue framed by thick lashes and underlined by soft, trembling lips, the icy blue that was looking at him so pleadingly and even as he opened his mouth to remind her who he was, who she was, how foolish she would have to be to take someone as low, as unworthy as him, the word he heard himself say was, “Yes.”

The spinning stopped. Everything stopped, everything fuzzed out but her, the pale skin, the blue eyes, the wisp of hair that had slipped loose from the ornate style she’d placed it into.

She stopped, mouth half open. “Yes? You’ll do it?”

He nodded. “Of course. Whatever you ask. Anything, My Lady. Sansa. Anything for you.”

She’d paused, leaning forward to study his face, which had flooded with a rather alarming shade of red. “You don’t have to, Pod. I won’t force you, you know. You can say no.”

“If you’re serious, My Lady, I’ll do it. I won’t say no. I don’t want to say no,” he shook his head. “If you really want to, I’ll marry you.”   

She’d let out a kind of desperate half-sob, half-laugh then, slumping just slightly and lifting his hands, still clutched in hers, to press her cold lips to them. “Oh, Pod. Do you mean it? Really?”

He nodded again. “Yes. I mean it. I wouldn’t lie to you, Sansa. Ever.”

She’d laugh-sobbed again. “I know, I know you wouldn’t, Pod, you darling. Thank you,” she’d dropped his hands and thrown her arms around his neck, burying her face in his neck and sighing contentedly when he hesitantly slipped his arms around her, settling comfortingly on her back.

She released him after a moment, pulling back just slightly and placing her hands on his burning cheeks and beaming at him. “You’re wonderful, Podrick. The loveliest person I know.” And with that, she had laughed and pressed her lips against his, quick and chaste and still enough to steal every last bit of breath from Pod’s body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters! At once! Wild! Anyways, for awhile I was a little annoyed that this fic is only canon-compliant through season 7, but after having watched season 8 it turns out I'm ok not acknowledging any of that gibberish (aside from Pod's now-canon lovely singing voice, and Ser Brienne which GODS I wish I'd thought of that, but oh well, too late now) ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ In any case, thank you all for reading and leaving comments and kudos! I've basically written all of this except the epilogue, and I'm out of school for the next month, so get ready for some updates and an actual end in sight to this puppy! I've enjoyed writing it so much and am already tossing around some ideas for another one, thanks to a lovely tumblr user who gave me an idea for a post-season 8 fic (and yes, I know I've got another that isn't finished but I'm literally just chewing on what I want the last chapter of that one to be at this point, so I don't feel toooo bad about having left it for so long). Once again, thanks for reading and giving feedback - I appreciate every single thing y'all leave for me here. You're the best!


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